#but anyways... so if someone's muse were to ever offer him any there's like a 95% chance that he'll decline

[doctorho]

a quiet light (a gentle support)

hi gang!! i got this ask a while ago and this has been simmering in my brain ever since. tonight i finally managed to write it down (@iheartdilfs1204 this is for u!!) sooo here's academy era viktor making a leg brace for reader that suffers from knee pain! gender neutral, 2k-ish words, no warnings. this is...sort of vague on all fronts, but, ya know, i'm always here for the chronically ill reader. bon appetit?

It's torture, that's what it is. Pure and simple. Viktor had opened his big stupid mouth before thinking, of course, which – sometimes worked to his benefit, and sometimes it didn't. He'd just wanted to help, and, truly, he’d meant it as nothing more than a friendly gesture of good will, but now you were in his lab, after hours, and it was quiet, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. 

He’d offered to make you a leg brace before he fully even realized he was doing it. The understanding of what he’d just said had settled in like an afterthought, the ‘I could do that for you’ an instinctual response to your musings about how your knee tended to ache and you were maybe thinking of getting something to help. He’d only looked up from his notes when you went quiet, and – it’d been one of those moments again. A single shared heartbeat, an understanding between people who both crawled their way out from the Undercity to live among people who had no idea what it was like. 

Viktor knows that while you’d mentioned the leg brace pretty casually, it was everything but; there was a great deal of pain you’d sludge through before paying someone to help, and, it was likely, even more before you’d admit to a weakness. While you hadn’t shared the more personal details of your situation to him, he was fairly sure he knew this, because it’s precisely what he would’ve done, and up in Piltover? A history like his gave a good perspective. You were colleagues, sure, maybe even friends, and he wasn’t arrogant enough to think he’d know what you were thinking most of the time, but…this he was fairly certain of. After all, he’d lived through the same problem. He’d been there. Except he hadn’t had help, then. 

“They’d overcharge you for the materials anyway,” he’d continued, writing down something that would most likely end up being redundant later, “and the standard issue ones are never well-fitted.”

You’d shifted in your place. He’d looked up. Met your eyes, waited for another shared second to pass while you clearly assessed his offer. 

“That’s probably true,” you’d sighed, then, “you’d do that?”

He’d shrugged. Returned to his notes. “If you want me to,” he’d answered, “I’ve got the experience. And I like to think my…current model is pretty sufficient.” 

He’d gone through many versions, many iterations of his own mobility aids over the years. Not all of them had been particularly comfortable to wear, but he’d eventually worked out most of the kinks. And…he was pretty confident that he could make you something that was more comfortable than the cheaply made off-the shelf ones you would find in the very few shops that offered them. 

“You’re sure?” 

He’d looked at you again. “Yes,” he’d answered, and it’d settled to the bottom of his lungs like a promise; yes, he’d do this. Yes, he’d help. Yes, he’d do what he could to give you any possible support in this stupid high-strung city, because no matter what his position in the Academy was, it still felt like he was an outsider among them. And you were one too. And…sure, maybe he’d jumped at the chance to help a little too quickly, but it was an honest offer. Viktor wasn’t the most social of butterflies, he wasn’t very good at getting close to people, but…he wanted to help if he could. He liked you, and, yes, he would probably have helped any decent person that’d ask, but he also felt a certain quiet sort of solidarity with you. And, truth be told, he wouldn’t turn down an opportunity to spend more time with you, even if he was never really good at saying so. 

So, here you are, in his lab after-hours. Shifting in your place like you’re not sure where to go from here. He’d asked you to come, and you had, he just…hadn’t thought much further than that.

He looks at you, and then at his desk, and then it truly strikes him that he does not have the space to be working with a person as a model base in here. But…you’re a trencher, like him. You’re not going to expect a five-star hotel, and for that, he is grateful. God knows he’d been in dingier establishments than this for his own tries at medical treatments.

“So,” he says, studying your posture, “joint pain? Muscle?” You hadn’t been very loud about the nature of your pain before, and he could understand why. It was hard, in the environment of the Academy, surrounded by shiny, polished Piltovians and their idealistic lives to admit that you had problems.

“Joint, mostly” you sigh, adjusting your posture again, and he nods. 

“I can work with that,” he notes, “do you know your measurements?”

“Ah, no?” You answer, “do you know many people that know their leg circumference without checking?” 

He shrugs, shoves a hand in his pocket. “You might have had a well-hidden passion for tailoring clothes.” 

You breathe through a hum. “Sadly, I do not,” you sigh, “I parse a mean hole, but I don’t know my measurements, no.” 

He shrugs again, and then, busies himself looking for a measuring tape. 

"I don't usually-" he says, then does a vaguely circular hand gesture, "work with live subjects. Well, excluding myself and the occasional plant, but those-"

He shakes his head with a sigh. "Nevermind, that's irrelevant. How do you – want to do this?" 

He finds the measuring tape, and looks at it in his hand. Two options; either you measure yourself or he measures you. And, unfortunately, he was suspecting that the latter might be more accurate. You were wearing skin-tight trousers made from light material, which should help, at least, but... 

“What do you need?” you ask, and that is not a question that is asked of him often. 

It takes him a second to recover from it. 

“Circumferences,” he answers, “range of motion. After that, it’s all fine-tuning.” He nods to himself, twirls the measuring tape in his fingers. 

You shift your weight from one foot to the other again. “Alright,” you say, nodding, “and how do we get those?”

He explains, to the best of his abilities, that the circumferences of thigh, knee and leg were pretty straightforward, and that the range of motion was a bit more complicated. He’d need to know how much your leg naturally moved – without pain, if possible – and how much it should move to serve optimal functionality. Which…unfortunately, were not always the same thing. He’d need to see you in motion to do this, and to be able to measure the bend of your knees.

This is how you end up sitting on the edge of his desk, your legs hanging down, while he’s instructing you to lift or stop or stay still while trying to measure the angles and distances with gentle fingers. It was weird, working with something…alive and warm and not-him, but he tries to adapt a professional approach; asks specifying questions about your ailments to perfect the design. 

Does the pain react to situational changes? Temperature, pressure? Weather? 

The brace should be as light as possible, to not misalign your posture, or bother you more than what it was worth. Sleek enough that you could hide it under clothes if you wished. Robust enough to not have to worry about. Somewhat adjustable.

You are warm under his hands, and so close he can hear your breathing. In the small, slowly dimming space, it felt like even the dust had stopped moving in the moments between questions and answers, when it was just you and him and the silence. 

It tugs at something at the back of his brain; how easy this moment flowed, even when he’d predicted it to be awkward. And maybe it was just him being a perpetual loner, but it was nice, one he got over the shock of–

Of touching someone like this, yes, but also…off approaching a near-medical situation with this level of gentleness. 

He’d spent most of his life trying to fix his own problems for as cheap as possible, and he knew too-well what medical treatments could be like, even when paid for. Cold tools, cold attitudes, the people in charge seeing you as nothing more than a problem to get rid of as fast as possible – and he wanted this to be as far from that as possible, so he kept his shoulders relaxed, his voice soft, his fingers gentle. It was true that he didn’t often exercise as much care as he should when working on things for himself, but this? This he tried to handle as carefully as possible. If he could do anything to make you more comfortable, he would. 

So he keeps his breathing steady. Keeps talking through the process to let you know what he’s doing and why. Keeps his touches lighter than probably actually necessary, erring on the side of caution. And he, very pointedly, compartmentalizes the part of him that was trying to supply thoughts of in what other kinds of situations he’d perhaps like to see you on his desk. 

He didn’t want to be weird about it, so he pretends those thoughts aren’t there while he gently wraps the measuring tape over your thigh. 

“Lift, please,” he exhales, without looking up, and you do, and Viktor can feel your muscles move under his fingers. But that’s just a professional observation. He’d keep his…unprofessional cravings under wraps, at least for now. 

This was just another thing he was working on. 

And if he’d do it well, it might just change your life for the better, and – personally, Viktor was of the opinion that you, and him, and everyone else from the Undercity had suffered enough already. He wanted to help. 

So when he’s satisfied with his notes, he leans back with a sigh and a nod, and looks up at you. You’re already watching him, eyes curious. And he’s suddenly very aware of the rest of the room, quiet and creeping at the back of his mind as you wait for his next move. The air feels colder now that he’s not touching you anymore.

That’s probably good. 

“This should be enough,” he says, waves a hand towards the scribblings on his notebook, “I’ll get it to you in, hm, a week?” He could probably do it faster, but he didn’t want to get your hopes up unless he couldn’t. He’d need to double-check the materials. 

You just look at him for a moment, frozen in…something. Then, “Can I…do something for you in return?”

Ah. The age-old tradition of bargaining. “Hm,” he says, glancing at his notes again, “if you want,” he shrugs a little, “but I don’t think that’s necessary.”

He knows saying that isn’t going to change things. It’s clear in the way you’re looking at him; you’re going to do something for him in return, and it isn’t optional. Not that he’s objecting, he’s not…against spending more time with you, by all means, but he hopes he’d sounded sincere enough that you really don’t need to. He’d spend his time tinkering with something anyway, so it might as well be something that helps. 

“What do you want?” You ask, leaning closer with your hands on the edge of his desk, and that, again, is something he isn’t asked often. It’s not something he thinks about often; his life is too full of other priorities for his own wants to matter much. But this gets his brain going before he can stop it;

More, it supplies, more time with you. More of whatever this is. And it feels selfish, and he knows that, but…

He shrugs again. “Not much,” he answers, “just whatever you think is good.”

[mad-hunts]

i was joking about this with ramone, but honestly... i think there may be some validity to the idea of barton smoking weed only one time in his life and never doing it again because it made him feel so chill, that he freaked out ☠️ like 'is this what 'normal' people feel like? because i don't know how to feel about this, or if i like it' LMAO

[mikashisus]

❛ ── INTRICATELY ENTWINED ❜

⤷ synopsis. to be so intricately connected with someone was a blessing, but it could also be a curse.

mydei x gn!reader. 789. ( contents : fluff! angst if u squint ) ╱ taglist. @wystiix @pneumosia @kazuinvocation @pixelcafe-network ( art creds : quinii09 ) HAPPY BIRTHDAY @st6rly !!!

Mydei liked to watch you. There was nothing more intimate to the both of you than gazing upon the other while they flourished in their trade. 

And right now, you with your tongue sticking out of your mouth as you furiously jotted down new song lyrics and hummed a soft tune under your breath, was nothing short of enchanting. You had your moments. You could be utterly disheveled from a fight, all battered and bruised, yet he’d still find a way to see the beauty in you. 

His way of portraying how he saw you was entirely different from the way you viewed him. To you, he was the words you wrote feverishly on parchment, a harmonious melody in your ears, elegant brush strokes on a canvas, the whistling of the wind in your ears and the softness of the breeze on your skin. He was the light guiding your path, the ink tattooed on your skin, the flow of pomegranate juice down your throat. 

Mydei was all that and more. He was the sun you chased after, the morning star that led you home. 

He brought color into your life. He was your muse. 

To him, you were something worth fighting for. The people of Kremnos valued the thrill of battle and personal honor above all, yet he always needed a purpose for fighting. Battle was not a game. It was an art. However, in that art, there was a purpose— a meaning that he so desperately sought for. Yes… battle was thrilling and the thrum in his veins during a fight was unlike anything he ever felt, but… it wasn’t something that consumed him. To be consumed by battle and bloodlust was a dishonor to Nikador’s core values. 

You were the purpose he found. You were the reason he continued to fight. 

The both of you could not be any more different, as was the way you saw each other— but it was also all the same. 

He was the finest melody, and you were the cherished fire setting him alight with purpose. 

Your eyes gazed up from your rough draft of the new song you were working on, drifting to the open window in your study. The market was bustling with life, but it missed your presence on the streets. 

A smile tugged at your lips. You’d return once more with a new song, and you’d sing it for the very muse who had been staring at you this whole time. You could feel his gaze on you, just like always, and with a soft sigh, you met his eyes. 

“You know… you should take a picture— maybe you’ll stare at that more than me, then.” 

He smirked. “Am I distracting you, bard?” 

You hummed. “Evidently so. But… you are fueling this— explosive creativity I have, so maybe you can stay.” 

“I was going to anyway.” He quipped, taking a sip of the pomegranate juice you offered him earlier. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.” 

“Could say the same to you, my dear warrior.” 

He was stuck with you now— and you with him. The two of you didn’t mind, though, as this exchange meant more than all the words you could ever string together, and more than all the battles he could ever fight in your honor. 

To be so intricately connected with someone was a blessing. It could also be a curse, but ultimately, it was a blessing. It was healing, in a way. 

You were seated across from him, your legs propped up on your desk as you scribbled in the notebook resting on your lap. Yet, you felt near to him, wrapped up in his embrace just from the soft expression in his eyes as he continued to stare at you like a cat. He was seated across from you, his chin resting in his palm and a lazy smile on his face. However, he could feel the coolness of your touch on his skin as you sent him an occasional fond smile. 

You didn’t have to be right next to each other to feel each other’s embrace. You didn’t have to be near the other to feel their love, adoration, or passion. You could be anywhere in the world and know exactly how he felt for you— how his life force connected with yours and intertwined with it so deeply. 

Was this what they called soulmates? 

The lingering thought in your mind gave rise to new inspiration, and suddenly you were grabbing your lute and finishing the remainder of the song meant to express your unconditional love for the man looking at you as if you had been the one to bear the world on your back instead of Kephale.

notes. happy birthday atlys!!! i hope u enjoyed this drabble! i'm really happy with how it turned out! this was more or less a continuation of the last mydei oneshot i wrote, but it can be considered a stand alone too. i'm hoping to start writing drabbles like this for moots for their birthdays!! i hope u have a wonderful bday atlys, and welcome to adulthood! 🤍

© 2025 mikashisus.

[yellowpsyduck]

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐜𝐤

𝐈𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐛𝐲 𝐚 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐧𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬.

Thomas Shelby x Carleton!Reader Warnings: Smut, slight size kink, Tommy attracting posh girls as always

“Are you fucking my sister-in-law?” were the very first words that came out of the young socialite’s mouth. They were directed to the man dressed in the grey suit with the flat cap, as he caressed the grey filly in front of him. 

“Such crude words from such a lovely young lass, eh?” the man looked rather amused at her choice of words, much less, her more than direct approach of interrogating him.  

The words she’d spoken weren’t quite what he had expected from a girl of her caliber, she seemed far too proper to opt for such language. 

 But she held her ground that girl, with her fashionably short bob and her velvet dress that would probably fetch enough pounds to feed a small family for a week in Small Heath. She didn’t waver under his icy stare, nor did she retreat her questioning glare. In fact, to his surprise, she arched her carefully sculpted eyebrow, as though prompting him to explain himself. 

She must be a London girl, he noted, such brazenness could only mean that she must've lived a sheltered life, never having to put her guards up in fear of gangsters and certainly never having to do anything with filthy old Birmingham.  

No, all she had to do was look pretty and polite and pop open bottles of champagne, dancing the night away to the Foxtrot and Charleston. She didn’t have a clue who he was, didn’t have a clue what he did and certainly didn’t have a clue as to why he always kept a Webley MK VI in his gun strap. 

Tommy found it quite refreshing. He couldn’t remember the last time someone talked to him so incredibly audaciously, if it wasn’t to barrage him with threats to his life.  

“I believed I asked you first, Mister” came the reply from her tinted red lips, looking rather displeased that her question was met with another. 

“Well, a lady like you shouldn’t worry about adult matters.” he replied as he fished his pockets for the metal cigarette case. “Anyways, she's your sister-in-law you say?” he offered her a cigarette, a habit of his which he’d developed from constantly being surrounded by chain smokers. 

“She is, or she was.” she took him up on his offer, as he lit it up for her, “Ian was my brother. His passing was hard on all of us; for her more than anyone else. So, I come up here any chance I get to keep her company, but now I see that’s no longer needed of me.” she said as she eyed him from head to toe, sizing him up almost.  

“Don’t let me be a bone of contention now.” he replied, his couldn’t possibly add another trouble to his list, the Epsom and Major Campbell were already a handful, to say the very least.  

“Actually, it’s quite the opposite.” A hint of surprise glazed over his eyes as he looked at her delicate features. “I’m quite relieved she isn’t shutting herself up." she trailed off, "And you’re certainly not the worst pick for a suitor.” 

“Now don’t go sizing me up for a wedding suit, Miss.” he said taking another drag of his cigarette “May and I are just.... acquaintances. She’s training my horse for the Derby, this beauty over here, you see.” he motioned to the grey horse behind him. 

“Oh.” She looked at him with an abashed humour in her eyes. “Then you must pardon my poor choice of words. I’m sure you won’t take the silly musings of a girl to heart.”  

She flicked the cigarette bud to the ground, stomping it lightly with the heel of her dainty Mary Janes. 

“I’m Y/N. Y/N Vera Carleton.” she extended her hand to him, her lips adorned with the most dazzling smile he’d ever seen in his entire existence. He took her hands in his, their sizes differing starkly. “I’m Thomas. Thomas Shelby.” 

“Well then Mr. Shelby, now that the previous fiasco is behind us, I must be off. My friends will be waiting for me, I’m afraid. There's a new club in the city called the Babylon, you might’ve heard of it, they’ve invited this jazz band from the Colonies. My friends say it’s all the rage these days.” she explained to him. 

Thomas knew she was one of those girls. The ones that never had to worry about a thing in their lives, except for what they’d wear to a social dinner or what diamonds to pair with what dress and he knew that a part of him wished he could be as carefree as them. But life had other plans for him, a runaway father, a suicidal mother and a fucking war to top it all off. 

But now with the Shelby Company Ltd. and his copious side ventures, he hoped that one day, his children, if he ever found a woman that is, would have a life that mirrored that of the captivating girl in front of him.  

“All right then, Miss Carleton, you have a good night now.” he bid the girl farewell as he watched her leave the stables. Her dress swaying with every step she took, she looked very frail, he noted, but not the kind that you’d see in the streets of Watery Lane, more so the kind of frail that was in vogue amongst the ladies of London. 

As the night progressed, it became abundantly clear that May Fitz Carleton and Thomas Shelby weren’t just acquaintances, although, that should’ve been clear from the moment he accepted her proposal to stay the night in the manor, more like a fucking castle, he thought. 

As night fell, Thomas found himself striding to the doors of his gracious host's, she’d left it unlocked, of course. Neither were novice adolescents; they knew what they wanted, and they certainly weren’t abashed about it. Their business was completed rather quickly though, she seemed unable to fully open her heart out to the deed and he had a myriad of thoughts occupying his mind.  

Breakfast was a rather lovely affair. May chose not to bring up their late night discretions, for which he was rather thankful for. In fact, she seemed content with it being a passing liaison, finally someone that’s on the same page as him, he mused. 

The lavish spread of food in front of him was overwhelming and he resigned himself to an Earl Grey and a toast. It seemed it was just May that occupied the house, seeing as though they were the only two to grace the table. Their conversations were pleasant, ranging from their shared love for horses to the ones they would be up against at the Derby, when lo and behold, the doors to the room sprung open to reveal a particularly chirpy Y/N, what she would be so cheery for, this early in the morning, he didn’t know. 

“Morning, my dearest. Hope you had a lovely night.” The older of the two woman remarked as she kissed her cheeks. “I’ve told Louisa to prepare those Vienna rolls you so love. She should bring it out any minute.” she stated as the maids served the new occupant with a steaming cup of tea. 

“That would be lovely, God knows I’m terribly famished.” she strutted into the room, smelling of daisies as she walked past him and kissed her sister-in-law. “Morning to you, my dearest Mayflower.” 

She took the seat opposite to his, paying him no mind and absentmindedly blowing into her tea. “Y/N darling, this is Mr. Thomas Shelby, he’s my guest. I'm training his horse for Epsom. " She motioned to the gentleman. "Tommy, this is Y/N, she’s Ian’s sister and the youngest of the Carleton bunch.” 

 “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shelby.” quipped the younger girl, pretending as though they were truly meeting for the first time. 

“The pleasure’s all mine.” Tommy went along with her play, opting not to reveal their meeting the previous day. 

“Madam, there’s a telephone for you. It's from Sir Ascot.” May was quickly ushered out of the room to attend to her business, leaving the unusual pair together. 

“So, are you going to keep staring or will you tell me what’s on your mind?” Y/N remarked as she forfeited the staring game they’d had going on.  

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” the girl in front of him was intriguing for sure, and she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. Tommy didn’t know other women besides Ada and Polly that would speak so nonchalantly with him, and he found himself quite enjoying this refreshing exchange. 

“Well, you’ve basically been undressing me with your eyes, since yesterday. So, shall we do it in my room or yours?”  

This. Tommy wasn’t expecting. 

He'd expected a whole lot of other things but not this. 

The girl didn’t bat an eye as she said those words, simply sipping on her tea, as though they’d only exchanged pleasantries with each other. Tommy was about to respond when a maid brought a plate of Vienna rolls to the table and diligently served her young Miss. 

As soon as her departing figure left the room, Y/N’s eyes darted back up to his, sucking slowly on the gold cutlery as she did. She seemed to be waiting for his reply and Tommy wondered how she’d react if he told her 'No'. Surely, such a girl as lovely as her wouldn’t be used to hearing those words of refusal. All she’d have to do was bat her pretty lashes, pout her soft lips and no one would dare refuse such a divine creature.  

And Tommy was by no means a saint. A posh girl like her asking him to fuck her wasn’t something that happened on the daily. And again, Tommy might be a man with great restraint, but he was a man after all.  

He'd be lying if he said his pants hadn’t gotten the slightest bit tighter at the sight of her sucking and licking on the spoon, that when he was balls deep inside May the previous night, all he thought about was the girl in front of him. Even now, as she sat in front of him, in her lace dress, he could see the slightest imprint of her breasts against the fabric of the dress.  

Tommy took in a deep breath, setting the teacup back on the porcelain saucer, when finally, he muttered “You don’t know who I am, do you, little girl?” For if she did, she wouldn’t have uttered those words, much less, even sip her tea so peacefully in his presence. 

“Should I care?” she asked in mock concern, “All I know is that you’re a well dressed gentleman that’s got a nice deep voice.” Truly, that was all she looked for. If a man had a deep enough pocket and an ever deeper voice, she’d go weak in the knees, and she knew May wouldn’t associate herself with a man that didn’t have the former. 

“Y/N Carleton, you’re truly a work of art, eh?” he chuckled, genuinely in awe of her intrepidity. 

“Well, that amongst other things.” came her quick reply, flashing him a cheeky smile. 

“Do you think she’ll notice? If were both absent from the table, that is.” he asked in reference to May, she sure as hell wouldn’t appreciate his advances towards her sister-in-law. 

“Don’t you worry, Sir Ascot is a hard fellow to deal with, he’ll talk her ear off for hours.” she stated unconcerned as she took strode out of the room, glancing back at him. 

“In fact, forget about the bedroom, there's a storeroom over there that’s unfrequented. God knows your staring is making me wild as it is.” She turned and left the room, the gentle sway of her hips beckoning him to follow her. And follow he did.

Thomas fucking Shelby following after a girl, his brothers would’ve had a field day had they learnt of it. 

But he didn’t care. All he knew was that he wanted her.  

He wanted to fuck her till she screamed his name. 

He wanted to fuck her till she couldn’t walk. 

He wanted to fuck her till she was a crying mess. 

The storeroom was quite spacious, like most of the rooms of this manor. But he wasn’t here to admire this. No. He came here for her. As soon as the latch to the door was shut closed, their lips crashed together. 

Oh! He could have had her then and there, her lips were so incredibly soft and moulded with his so fucking perfectly. Her hands found themselves in his hair and she tugged lightly, making him crazy at her touch, while his hands kneaded her supple buttocks. She might’ve been slim, but she was certainly well endowed in just the right areas. 

She soon broke the kiss and quickly worked to unbutton her dress, looking at him as he did, and that smile. That fucking smile of hers. Thomas didn’t know anyone more lovely than her. 

She stripped down to her chemise, her garter bands visible underneath. He couldn’t control himself at the sight of her lovely frame. His hands soon brought the straps of her flimsy cover down, exposing her delicate brassiere which was also discarded on the floor. 

She looked glorious standing in front of him, in just her garter bands and stockings. He would fuck her with those on he decided. The sight of her thighs in those were making the tent in his pants so painfully obvious. 

She undid his suspenders, kneeling down as she pulled his trousers down, freeing his throbbing red cock from it’s tight restraints. She blushed a little at the obscene sight, sure she’d seen her fair share of cocks, but none as majestic as his. Tommy Shelby had drawn him to her because of his deep voice, but his huge cock, now that was a brilliant surprise. The London chaps she’d been with just couldn’t compare.  

She licked the precum that was dripping from his tip, making him shudder in anticipation and little by little she licked the length of his entire shaft, making sure to drag her tongue along every crevice. She held her cock in both hands, it’s sheer size making her marvel. As Tommy looked down, the sight below him was eliciting a dark reaction inside of him, her little dainty fingers wrapped around his manhood. God! She looked so very small. 

She sucked his cock, trying her best to take in as much as she could. She was diligent, for sure, doing her best to make him happy, taking small breaths, accommodating her throat for his dick and working her hands constantly along his shaft or his balls. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect.” he breathed out raspily. She was an angel.  

An angel sent just to fuck him. He didn’t know any woman or whore that was doing the things she was. But here she was, a little thing like her milking his cock like a good girl. 

He grabbed her hair, lightly bucking his hips inside of her mouth. She seemed to be suffocating almost, his big dick choking her. Almost. 

“Just like that baby, just like that.” 

Fuck! She was such a good girl, holding her cries till he released his load inside of her mouth. “Swallow.” he commanded. She was a glorious mess, doing as he commanded her.  

Her eyes were watery, and her mouth was thoroughly abused, but she still looked at him with devotion laced in her beautiful eyes. 

He lifted her off the ground and laid her on the table like surface. He spread her legs wide open with his hands and marveled at the sight. Her throbbing cunt, glistening in arousal looked so warm, so inviting. He kissed her on the lips once more and dove in to eat her out, but a small hand covered the entrance.  

“She might be done soon, so, please just fuck me.” she cried, so obviously starved for him. 

He wasted no time and rubbed her clit, making sure her entrance was slick enough, and she was, so incredibly wet for him. He lined his dick to the entrance of her pussy and thrusted lightly. Just the tip he moaned. Just the tip and she was already on the verge of tears. 

“Just breathe, love. Just breathe for me, eh?” he cooed in her ear as his hips thrusted in small motions to enter her tight cave, rubbing her clit as he did. And then with a final thrust he entered her pussy. 

God! She felt so good. Her tight walls caved around his cock, stimulating him in ways he didn’t think possible. His motions became faster as her cries became louder. 

“Tommy!” she moaned over and over again, seemingly unable to formulate any coherent sentences, her brain clogged with the intense pleasure of his cock ramming into her.  

“You fit me so well, Y/N. I’m never letting go of you or your tight fucking pussy after this.” he moaned in her ear. 

The constant slapping of skin and unbridled moans didn’t leave much to the imagination of the maids and butlers that might’ve overheard, but they didn’t care. All they knew was that they were nearing their release and it just felt so fucking good. 

“Tommy, I’m close.” she managed to stumble out the words. 

“Wait for me, love. You’re gonna cum when I tell you to.” he groaned as he fastened his pace, evidently nearing his release. 

And with a final thrust, he whispered in her ear and they let go. They were quite the pair to look at. Him, with his trousers on the floor, his hands gripping onto her waists and his eyes never leaving hers and she, with her damn naked body, her tear streaked cheeks and her smudged lipstick. 

Tommy gave her a sweet kiss to her forehead and wrapped his arms around her naked body as they remained in the warm embrace. Their heartbeats were gradually returning to usual, and their panted breathing became steadier. 

He retrieved a handkerchief from his pockets and delicately cleaned her sore entrance. The evidence of their lovemaking spilled lewdly on the floor; it was to be someone else’s problem, not theirs. He slipped the stained handkerchief into his pockets and helped her dress. She seemed incredibly satiated as she stared at him with sheer fondness in her eyes. 

Tommy knew that he couldn’t let go of her now. Not after this.  

She was his, even if she didn’t know it yet. 

“We best get going now, love.” he told her as he waited for her to gather herself together.  

“Wait, silly, you’ve got lipstick on your nose.” she giggled as she rubbed the scarlet red lipstick off for him, standing on the tip of her toes. 

She moved to open the door, but her steps felt awkward. He chuckled at her attempt to walk and offered his hand so she may lean on him. The walk back to the table was interesting, with her uncharacteristic gait and lipstick that seemed to have been smudged clean, and his hair that had been slightly disheveled and lips that held the faintest smile. 

Both looked nothing like they had a few moments prior. If the maids noticed the obvious change, they didn’t comment on it as they dutifully carried out their tasks, making the most possible effort to not offend the pair as they walked through the halls.  

May arrived a few minutes later rambling about how much she would’ve loved to cut the call halfway, had Sir Ascot not been an influential member of the Board. She had been so engrossed in her rant that perhaps, she didn’t notice the obvious change in the mood. 

She also didn’t notice the fact that Thomas Shelby’s eyes never once left her sister-in-law who insouciantly continued drinking her tea that was far too cold by now. 

“Well, May, my stay here has been lovely, but I best get going now.” he uttered at last, the business back at home didn’t wait for no one, especially not for him to fuck posh girls. 

“Indeed, I assume you must have your work cut out for you and oh! I forgot to tell you this morning that I’ve had your car stocked up with engine oil, so, it’ll be a smooth ride home.”  

“Thank you for that, May.” he put on his coat and thanked her for her gracious hosting. 

“Tommy.” she called out as he stepped into his vehicle. “Will I see you again?”  

“I’m sure we’ll cross paths again, Miss Carleton.”  

Miss not Mrs. because his eyes, as he spoke those words weren’t on the woman in front of him, but rather they were on the girl that stood at the doorway, a mischievous smile dancing on her lips. 

Ah! That smile. 

The drive home was brisk, his mind occupied with the image of her and that darn smile. He may have been back in Birmingham, but he knew that apart of his mind had been left behind with a particularly charming girl in the Carleton Estate. 

[catcze]

No but ehat if like wriothesley had an s/o or maybe someone hes romantically interested in who he sees mostly in the fortress and then they go outside together one day and he's like "i never realized how beatiful you are in the sun" and hes all cute and blushin and shit OUGGH OUGH OUGH I'VE BEEN SHOT THROUGH THE HEART WRAAAAAGHHSHDH

OUGHHASDAS YOU AND ME BOTH U AND ME BOTH

Reblogs are greatly appreciated !!

When you set out on your day off, you weren't expecting to run into your boss— certainly not in a cafe, of all places.

"Your grace?" you ask hesitantly, approaching the table that Wriothesley and Sigewinne occupy. There's a litany of small desserts before them, as well as a teapot and two tea cups filled with rather aromatic tea. You run a hand over your top, trying to smooth any wrinkles that there may be. You certainly hadn't been expecting to run into him here! Oh, if you knew you would have dressed a little bit better. As it is, you were just here to hunt down an afternoon snack, and you certainly looked it.

But Wriothesley lights up at the sight of you, a small smile curling the edge of his lips. Sigewinne grins too, waving in welcome.

"Hello there!" She says pleasantly. "We weren't expecting to see you here!"

You chuckle. "Same here."

"But it seems like you've come at quite the opportune moment," Wriothesley says, beckoning you into one of the empty chairs of the table. He straightens a bit, slouching less in his seat, and leans forward on his elbows. That smile is still on his lips, and his gaze hasn't left you for a second. "I'm afraid we may have gone a bit overboard with our order. You'd be doing us a favor by having some." Sigewinne nods in agreement. You feel the blood rush to your face though, turning it warm.

"Oh, I couldn't impose like that, your grace—"

"Sure you can," Wriothesley's smile broadens then, and you get a hint of his canines in his smile. A slight hint of a dimple on his cheek. "I already said that you'd be doing us a favor, didn't I? Besides, you can drop the 'your grace' while we're here. Treat this like... a serendipitous meeting between friendly parties, rather than between coworkers."

And oh, if you thought that your face was warm before, it had practically doubled in temperature now. Not wanting him to hurry you any further, you plop in the seat. Sigewinne giggles, pouring you a cup of tea and handing it to you which you take with a word of thanks.

"Here," says Wriothesley. He gestures for you to hand him your plate, and as you do so, your fingers brush. It sends tingles up your arm, and you damn near drop the plate out of reflex. Wriothesley, judging by how he clears his throat, his ears turning several shades redder, is not unaffected either.

He fills the plate with lots of confectionaries, desserts, finger foods, and sandwiches, and all sorts of other things. Sigewinne points out some things for him to give you on occasion, and he happily takes her suggestion and gives you some. Well. You've certainly got your afternoon snack and thensome.

As Wriothesley hands the plate back to you, he pauses just as you've taken hold of the other side.

"You know... I think this is the first time I've seen you in broad daylight," he muses. His cheeks redden a bit, and he chuckles at himself under his breath. "The sunlight makes you look even more stunning than usual."

And you make an embarrassed noise, because archons, you might just be in need of medical assistance by the end of this, because there is no way the flipping of your heart is normal. You take the plate, looking down and away so he doesn't see your flustered expression, but he has anyway, if his small laugh is any indication.

"If you ever want to come back here, feel free to say so. My treat." Wriothesley offers, gazing at you with his chin resting on his palm. He looks at you like he never wants to look away. "I'd be happy to see you in this sunshine again, if you'd let me."

[manicpixiefelix]

head, heart, hand. {Felix Catton/Reader/Oliver Quick}

Part 17.

Summary: Learning little things, and big things, on these summer days. About each other, and how the world sees you all, in the garden, in the family room, in hindsight, in the study late at night.

{ masterpost }

Need to Know: They/Them. Explicitly NB Reader. FWB!Reader/Felix. Reader is from a well off family but has pretty much been adopted by the Cattons.

Warnings: reader, felix, venetia, and oliver getting high in the garden together, some degrading language (kind of a given any time venetia and reader are in the same room at this point), heavy discussion about the reader's parental trauma/neglect

A/N: 5812 words. i think i cast venetia in a bad light sometimes which i feel bad about because i love her to pieces, and she and the reader love each other very much its just that she's gotten used to being arguably too verbally prickly with them in order to rile her brother up mostly, and she forgets (and maybe i do too) what that looks like from the outside. anyways, just for absolutely no reason whatsoever, have you ever looked up what different flowers mean in flower language? much to think about.

TAGLIST IN COMMENTS!! // TAGLIST ALWAYS OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)

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Venetia rolls her joints with little hearts at the end where the filter would go if it were simply a cigarette. It's a trick she learned during what she calls her 'gap year', what Elspeth calls her 'grand wine tour of Europe', and what Felix and Farleigh have recently started cruelly referring to as 'the year Venetia inspired a TV show'. While you do think it's mean, you also quietly agree that Billie Piper bares a striking resemblance to the young Catton woman in the ads you'd seen for Secret Diary of a Call Girl. Cruel implications is all you would say on the matter, not that either of the boys had been game enough to say it to her face.

But the thought floats through your mind in this moment, taking just a moment to admire the way she's expertly curled the paper before you bring it to your lips. She watches you with that smile that tends to intimidate others, sharp and mean and hungry, sharp gaze on your lips as you inhale, lips remaining sealed as you offer the next hit to Felix on your right. Venetia's focus follows the joint, straying from you to admire the way her brother takes a hit before he too passes it on to Oliver.

Felix muses to no-one in particular about how long it's been since he'd been out here to the Fairy Ring Garden, but only gets a response from Oliver, and a strained one at that as your guest holds smoke in his lungs as long as he's able, muttering that it's beautiful. Sitting on the grass in the morning sun, you squint at the iPod in your hands, trying to choose some music.

Venetia suggests Amy Winehouse. Felix calls his sister tragic under his breath, to which she flips him off. Still, it's the best suggestion you've got so far, so moments later, the singer's rich vocals warble out of the little, portable speaker you'd plugged into the headphone port.

"Good dog," Venetia says with a particularly mean sneer in her brother's direction as she takes the iPod out of your hands to place it on the grass, replacing it with the joint you'd all been passing around once more. Out of instinct, you place your free hand on Felix's chest, telling him that whatever reaction he was going to have really wasn't worth it. Venetia rolls her eyes, "boo, you whore," she snarks, laying back on the grass.

"I'm taking the rest of this as compensation for emotional damages," you hold the joint between two fingers, telling Felix to just roll another from the kit still sitting in the middle of the impromptu circle the four of you had made. Much to both yours and Felix's surprise, Oliver moves too quickly to let him, rolling with the air of someone who'd seen it done often without having done it himself.

Both you and Felix watch him for quite a while as he stumbles through the task like a baby deer taking it's first steps. Things are getting fuzzy and warm around the edges already, and you're caught up in watching the way Oliver's hands work.

"Why 'd you put up with her?" Oliver asks bluntly, frowning at his work. Venetia's indignant 'hey' goes otherwise ignored by the three of you and it takes a long moment for Felix to respond.

"She's my sister?" But in his confusion it sounds more like a question, talking about Venetia like she's not even there. But Oliver stops, and finally looks at him; he offers a rather sad looking, clearly unfinished joint, not as an offering but as a silent request for help. Felix takes it and tries not to look too endeared by Oliver's failed attempt as he fixes it.

"Not you, Felix," Oliver, after a moment, looks away from Felix, right to you, eyes wide and earnest as he watches you take a long draft of your own joint, now burned well down. His gaze makes his intentions clear, but still he offers, "she's mean to you too." Too, like he'd pointed out about Farleigh all those months ago.

"They like it," Venetia scoffs at the sky dismissively, but Oliver refuses to acknowledge her, even if Felix takes a moment to scowl at his sister and her constant, casual degradation of you. But a slow, amused smile spreads across your lips in the moments that follow, you can't help it.

"I love that you worry about me, Ollie," you sigh almost dreamily. Clearly not expecting that, you have the pleasure of watching Oliver blush with surprise, "you're so fucking pretty, Ollie," you add, though you're pretty sure you couldn't have stopped yourself from saying that out loud if you tried. He blushes harder, while Felix and Venetia both try and stifle their giggles; you take another hit, tilting your head just a little as you look at him, analysing him. Finally, when you ask his favourite flower out of seemingly nowhere, Oliver seems like he can't function under your gaze like this, and chooses to lay back in the grass, mirroring Venetia.

"Darling, you're such a lightweight," Felix snorts, speaking from the corner of his mouth as he holds the rerolled joint between his lips as if intending to light it. Before he can flick the lighter on, however, you take his chin gently in hand, guiding him to you, pressing the still-glowing end of your own joint to his unlit one for several long seconds, until his caught successfully.

When you and Felix join your companions in laying back on the grass, you do so together. His arm is around you, coaxing you to lay with your head on his chest, beside him under this perfectly blue sky.

"Why would you want to know something like that?" Oliver's voice reminds you he's there only moments later.

"Because their robot brain needs to know everything about everyone at all times," at least Venetia sounds fond when she chimes in, even if her words aren't exactly the most complimentary.

"You're lucky you're pretty, Vee," Felix cuts in with a casually cruel tone; you can feel the way he twitches with irritation, "because you have so few other redeeming features."

"I am pretty," Venetia agrees airily, pointedly ignoring his insult, "you're such a darling brother, Felix," she adds with painfully sarcastic faux-sweetness. Felix's only response was to sigh with incredibly loud disappointment, while you tried to stifle your giggling, caught up in the sensation of him tracing abstract patterns up and down your arms, and the idea that you could count on the ever-relaxed Felix Catton to always come to your defence. Had this been the case for years? Over a decade? Yes. Would it always make you a little bit giddy to think about? Almost definitely.

"And it's not like I'm wrong," Venetia finally broached the silence once more, "as if they don't already know our favourite flowers," she points out, before making a rather insistent noise. You bark at her command, it seems - those cheerful little yellow ones on the inner ring of flowers - dismissive, but the sound of her scoff has you correcting yourself, suddenly feeling a sting of shame and not quite knowing why.

"The chrysanthemums." The other three echo the name of the flower, one right after the other, all taking turns to turn it over in their minds and mouths as you almost burn your fingers finishing off your joint. As if trying to prove yourself, you add, interrupting them all, "Fi's are forget-me-nots."

Felix seems surprised to agree, like even he'd forgotten that detail about himself, or perhaps forgotten that he'd shared it with you, while Venetia's laughter has turned fond and knowing; it's a little condescending too, like she'd expected as much from you, but you try not to dwell on it. It's Oliver's voice that you focus on, endeared as he quietly murmurs the name of the flower to himself, like he can't quite believe something as soft as Felix having a favourite flower.

"Now I'm curious, Ollie," Felix finally speaks up, and you hear the grass shift beneath his head. He must be turning to look at the man in question, "do you have a favourite flower?" He pauses for a moment, "or is this one of our weird things, like wearing cuff-links to dinner every night?" He tries to play it off, but there's those notes of self consciousness that you're surprised he often gets when talking about tradition around Saltburn.

The grass near Oliver rustles, but your comfort overrides your intrigue to watch him.

"I think it's fox... Something?" Oliver says after a moment, "my favourite flower," he clarifies, "I haven't put much thought into it," he admits. You hum thoughtfully before asking if it could be foxglove. He confirms as much before going quiet.

There's a lull that follows in which Felix asks after Farleigh's whereabouts. Farleigh should be here, your hazy mind immediately chirps, you love Farleigh! Venetia sighs, sounding incredibly put-upon to be explaining that Farleigh was in the computer room, obsessing over his ex-boyfriend's MySpace updates that he'd missed lately. The ones about the tour.

"The guy from that Broadway show?" Felix asks with vague interest.

"No, his ex-girlfriend is touring with that Broadway musical, that he knows about, that he at least pretends he doesn't care about," Venetia corrected, "the ex-boyfriend is that one from that band, the one who wrote that song about him that got nominated for that award?"

"Grammy," you supplied automatically.

"Right," Venetia barely acknowledged you, "anyways, he's on that big, American tour with all those tragic, emo bands that are a big deal, which is apparently news to our dear cousin."

"Is that the one we were all talking about getting tickets to a few months ago?" Felix asks after a moment of silence, patting you on the arm as if his words weren't enough to get your attention. You hum in confirmation.

"I think so; The Warped Tour, we were going to make a vacation of it in LA this summer," you sighed rather forlornly at how the idea never got off the ground, "it was Anabel's idea -"

"- God, she's always been such a groupie for those kinds of boy-band-types -" Felix mutters derisively under his breath as if he hadn't spent the better part of two semesters inviting her to his dorm to listen to him play guitar knowing full well she'd practically be on her knees at the very suggestion. So of course you ignored that aside to finish your explanation.

"- except she turned around and said she hated the line up, when really she didn't want to admit her passport expired and she couldn't be bothered with the paperwork for a new one -"

"Actually," Oliver chimes in, though you're not sure if he was adding to the conversation, or if he'd even been listening, "when I was a boy I got to go to this botanical garden that had all these fancy flowers usually from the rest of the world." Oh. Flowers again? Sure. "There were these ones that got flown in from Australia, and I couldn't help thinking that they weren't worth it to fly all the way over here from Australia. Too long and curly and pointy; pretty, but not the kind that..." something about the way he speaks about the experience, about the flowers, it catches in your mind; Australian, long, curly, pointy, pretty, you tried to commit to memory, "that's worth spending your time on." He clears his throat and his tone seems almost forcibly lighter, "foxgloves are prettier, wouldn't you think? Yeah..."

Silence hangs between you all for several long, pensive moments.

"What colour were they?" You ask softly.

"Foxgloves?" Oliver knows you don't mean the foxgloves. He asks anyways. Everything always for the sake of the act, the pantomime of propriety.

"No."

"Red."

There is no more that needs to be said in the moment, but later you will be grateful when the details stick through the haze of your memories. Through the quiet, Venetia mentions how she misses the purple pincushions, how sweet and strange they were, and how cruel you have been to order the gardeners to prune the flowers before they can ever bloom.

The mere mention of those purple fucking pincushion flowers sours your mood; your one regret amongst your garden, a conceit to Felix that even he wishes he could take back knowing now how much you'd end up hating them. It's been a year since a single purple pincushion has bloomed in your garden, and you've been down here at least once a day all Summer, meticulous, pruning the bulbs yourself with much malice aforethought. Part of you is so filled with fury in this moment that you consider going over and uprooting the plants by hand right now, but Felix's arm around you, Felix's chest, solid and warm beneath your head, Felix's steady heartbeat in your ear, he grounds you.

For now you must simply remain content knowing that none of Eddie's precious, purple pincushions will ever bloom upon the grounds of the Saltburn Estate again.

"Venetia," expression pinched, you address her with far more coldness than you think you've ever directed towards her before, "shut up."

You don't remember when exactly during the day you asked Duncan to fetch you all the botany-related books in the house that made mention of plants native to the Asia-Pacific region. Knowing yourself, and knowing Duncan, however, you're not surprised by the small, neat stack you find the following evening on your desk in the lilac study.

While you fully intended on continuing your trend of wearing something provocative and continuing the pantomime of propriety with Oliver as the two of you had been doing each night for almost a week, Sir James raises the suggestion of a family movie night instead. Felix whines when Venetia and Farleigh champion the suggestion of a scary movie, and pouts when they bully Oliver into agreeing with them.

"Don't ask them," Farleigh groans when you're called upon for your opinion, "they're just going to say whatever Felix said but in a different voice," he rolled his eyes. You and Felix both choosing to flick little pieces of cantaloupe at him from your desserts does nothing but strengthen his argument.

Nobody thinks to ask Poor Dear Pamela her opinion, sitting at the end of the table, looking less than thrilled by the suggestion of The Ring, so everyone else decides that you and Felix are out numbered. On the way back to your rooms to change out of your dinner clothes, Oliver tries to apologise, and Felix tries to pretend that it's fine and he's just putting it on for Venetia and Farleigh and that he absolutely does not have the temperament of a rabbit when it came to anything scary. He is, of course, lying. But Oliver doesn't realise that just yet.

Venetia, always invigorated by a social triumph such as this, and never one to let a well-earned moment of joy pass her by, tucks her arm in Oliver's as the family meets back up in the living room. The moment is not missed by either you or Felix, who both glower at her bold display of affection as she ignores you and pulls Oliver onto the sofa. The large, plush armchair next to the sofa, with it's wide, low arms almost fits both you and Felix, though it's more of a token gesture than anything. No-one is surprised when he pulls you into his lap less than ten minutes after the film begins, arms around you and watching with his chin on your shoulder, ready to hide his face against your shoulder at a moment's notice.

When the film ends and the lights come back on, Venetia finally notices how you and her brother are sitting, and opens her mouth with malicious intent in her eyes.

"Watch it," you warned her before she could say any choice, disparaging remarks, "remember who's kept you off of What Not To Wear the past six years," you remind her; Felix, giving you a little squeeze, levels a smug smile at his older sister over your shoulder. Venetia closes her mouth, expression immediately turning.

"I can't believe they're still making that show," she spits, stalking from the room. Farleigh, finally getting up and stretching, follows her out at a far more relaxed pace.

"I can't believe they're still fighting Y/N to put you on it."

With those two having left, Elspeth and Pamela both give you curious looks, Elspeth asking if it was true. You confirmed as much with a blithe shrug, finally getting to your feet.

"Years ago one of the hosts was trying to track Ven down after seeing her on a red carpet and word got back to dad - or, well, his assistant at the time - and he remembered that I'm pretty close with the Cattons," you gave a humourless smile, offering Felix your hand to help him up from the sofa, which he gladly took, "however Ven was deeply offended when I asked her if she wanted to be on the show," Felix let himself chuckle at that, while Oliver was taking longer to stand, strange look on his face as he listened to you with surprisingly rapt attention.

"And they've been, what, continuing to ask after her even though she's said no?" Elspeth frowned, but you sighed, shaking your head.

"No, apparently Ven sent in a particularly rude letter despite me informing them of her refusal, and now dad's assistants seem to think I'm her agent and I get a call every time the show is threatening to add her photo to a montage of worst-dressed celebrities."

"Didn't she freak out when you refused to get an episode pulled when they actually did it?" Felix snorts, to which you rolled your eyes.

"That's why dad's assistants keep calling me, because of how she reacted to that episode."

You do feel a little bit bad for Venetia in this moment, when you see the resigned disappointment in both her parents' eyes at the story. The rest of you do finally filter out at this point, all heading back to your separate rooms. The walk is quiet for the most part, except for when Oliver, who'd been looking as though he was ruminating very hard on something, looks to you.

"Y/N, what does your dad do for work?"

You know and hate that Oliver sees the moment in which his question makes you uncomfortable, no matter how much you try to not let it, nor how desperately you try to hide it. Shrugging as you desperately shoot for casual, you sigh.

"I'm pretty sure your guess is as good as his," you say blithely, so casually evasive that Oliver doesn't really think to call you out on it before you get to your room. But after you and Felix wish him good night and head into your room, you close the door and slump against it with a heavy sigh. Felix lets you have this moment of respite to yourself, quietly moving about the room, getting ready for bed.

"Do you think they'll even show up?" Finally Felix breaks the silence, and you just make a vague noise, "to the dinners they told mum they'd be at," he clarified after a beat.

"Probably," you muttered, dejected at the prospect as your mind wanders to the couple who reluctantly created you.

"They asked about you," you admit to Felix quietly. From what you can hear, he stops, "mum, specifically," the memory of the phone call with your grandmother burned bright in your mind; it wasn't particularly recent, had happened at the start of your last semester, but you'd kept it to yourself for so long. You'd tried to disconnect yourself from it, tried to take solace in your grandmother's fury on your behalf, but you feel your face heat up with your own anguish, "asked how you were and if you were still living in 'that beautiful house with the Reubens and all those royal portraits'," voice trembling with both heartache and resentment, you slide down the door, tears welling even as you had your eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"Nan sounded so angry when she told me," you whispered, knees drawn up to your chest, "I've never heard her like that; she made it sound like she yelled at mum for- for- for ages -" you feel when Felix settles down beside you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. This is when you finally break, when you finally let yourself cry, whimpering, "but I bet mum just hung up on her the minute she felt like the fucking victim."

Felix isn't the one who needs to be apologising right now, but part of you knows you'll never get one from the people you crave it the most from. Still, he apologises with his lips against your temple. You know your best friend well enough to know his heart is breaking for you, and fuck you wish you had been strong enough to push back this breakdown, but you couldn't -

"She asked for you by name, Fi, full name," you sobbed curling up in his arms, burying yourself against him in your misery, "they haven't spoken to me or about me in eleven years; they haven't even said my name- they've acted like I don't exist to everyone - everyone - even to my own grandmother for eleven years!"

There's no easy sleep that can be found after a revelation like this, but Felix, even after he manages to drift off, is unwilling to let you go, unwilling to let you feel even the slightest bit alone for the rest of the night. It continues through the next day, even as you assure him you're fine, that you're glad for his comfort but that you've overcome the despair that had hit you so tremendously last night. It's not even much of a lie.

You spend the day with the family who'd taken you in without hesitation, and feel a swell of pride within you as you hear Oliver comment enthusiastically on the Palissy plates Sir James had always loved dearly. You yourself vaguely recall the plates getting a page to themselves in the very book you'd gifted Oliver about Saltburn, so you were glad to see him putting it to good use.

A little white lie about how deep Oliver's love for Palissy genuinely was really wouldn't hurt anyone. Honestly, it was worth it for just how brightly Sir James' eyes shined at one of Felix or Venetia's friends finally taking an interest in his antiquities like that.

But all day, Felix was never too far away. Not that he was incredibly obvious about it, at least not from anyone else's perspective, but you could tell. Quietly, you were grateful, even if you were still trying to convince the both of you that you were okay. Something about being able to just lean back and know he'll be there in times like this, times where you need him to be there but don't know how to say it out loud, is a comfort you never want to take for granted.

You want to thank him but it gets caught in your throat. But standing on his balcony as the sun sets, sharing a cigarette, you take his free hand for this one, quiet moment. Your voice is full of affection, full of thanks, full of love, too much for you to even look at him, focus kept on your hands, your fingers laced with his.

"My Felix."

"Always, love," he kisses your forehead.

That night, the only time you are without him is when you end up in the lilac study, wondering if Oliver will even show up after last night broke the tradition. Either way you'd use the time to continue to go through your botany books on the hunt for red, curly, pointy, Australian flowers. You keep seeing bottle brush but something in your heart said it wasn't right. However long you'd actually spend perusing the books tonight would depend on if you had company.

But eventually Oliver does choose to darken the doorway with that hungry-eyed stare you've never seen in the light of day, and you take your time with noticing him. Tonight you're lounging on the cream sofa in one of Felix's shirts, not even bothering to do the buttons up; you've pulled it mostly close for a pass at modesty, considering the only other thing you're wearing is underwear.

"'re you seducing me?" He sounds amused; you're surprised by how quickly he cuts to the chase, but you try not to let it show.

"Is it working yet?" You turn another page of your book before you finally look up, playing almost at boredom. Oliver, barely visible for the lamp light, the gallery beyond him nothing but shadows, huffs a laugh at that, and for reasons you can't quite understand, he drops his gaze. He breaks the moment, the rules of the game. Oliver doesn't look away, he never has before.

"You trying to get me in trouble?"

"Depends on what you consider to be trouble," your smile grows wider as you carefully set your book to the side, fixing your intrigued gaze upon Oliver properly, "perhaps I'm saving you from trouble." In a sense, the more nights you can get him to spend here with you, the less he's falling prey to Venetia's planting herself beneath his window you're sure she's doing, just as she had with Eddie a year ago. At least this time you've learned.

"I think you may very well be the trouble," Oliver looks up, just in time to see your wicked, delighted grin.

"Then I am definitely trying to get you in trouble," you don't even hesitate before firing off the inuendo, smiling wide and proud at your own quick wit. The sight of Oliver's very genuine smile and laugh catches you off guard too; it'd been so long since you'd seen it, you forgot how taken you were with him when he lit up like that. Then, as the laughter died down, Oliver walks in, he sits with you, lets you lean against him.

"You've been saying a lot of..." he hesitates, turning to you. Oliver wears a strange, lopsided smile, but from the corner of your eyes you see something reserved in his gaze as he takes in the sight of you in this moment, "generous things about me." He's too close to miss the way your breath catches. Venetia and Farleigh are dirty fucking snitches, "'s alright-" he tries, but there's clearly some kind of reservation in his voice as he staves off your stammered apology, "knew what I was getting into, didn't I?"

With Oliver's arm around you, you can't help but wonder aloud -

"Did you?"

"I thought I did," he admitted softly, and you tipped your head onto his shoulder, then you feel him shift, feel his lips on your forehead and voice soft, "I think I thought I'd be alright anywhere if I was with Felix." For reasons you try very hard not to think about in this moment, Oliver's words sting.

"Oh," it almost gets caught in your throat; your traitorous heart sinks in your chest for just a moment. Except Oliver gives you a squeeze, holds you tight as he seems to realise his mistake.

"Of course you're a given," it almost salvages the moment, and of course you feel as though you have to act like it does, but there's something tight and unfamiliar balling up in your chest. "Felix loves you," Oliver sounds almost wistful, words coming out more like a faint breath, but perhaps it's this strange new feeling in your chest that makes him harder to read in this moment.

"He loves you too, Ollie," you tell him, forcing yourself to inject some levity into the moment. This time it's you who moves, who turns your face to Oliver, forehead against his as you muster up the warmest smile you can manage, pressing against him, making a show of overwhelming affection, "we both do," of course, your tone says, obviously.

And Oliver actually giggles at that, so it must work. In the next moment he's pulled you into his lap. It's so easy for you to readjust, to fit in his arms, in his space, against him, like it's where you were always meant to be.

"Is that you talkin' or Felix talkin'?" Oliver asks finally when you've got your arms settled around his neck, "I don't mind, I'd just like to know."

"What 'd you mean?" You ask, curious about the wording and it's implications. Oliver visibly hesitates, though he seems more embarrassed for whatever was about to come out of his mouth than anything else.

"Speakin' with Venetia made me realise how little I actually know about you," Oliver says carefully. Almost immediately your expression sours, and a long, exasperated sigh is pulled from you, "she's a deeply confusing woman, isn't she?" He adds almost like an afterthought, and you barked a quiet laugh.

"That is a very kind way of putting it," you offered diplomatically after a beat, before letting go of Oliver and leaning yourself back against the arm of the sofa, considering your next words carefully. His hands come to rest on your stomach, but you're surprised when he does up two of the buttons of Felix's shirt, providing you with a little more modesty. Then, his hands come to rest on your stomach and thighs, warm and unmoving.

"You're a deeply confusing individual yourself," Oliver pushes softly, "when I think about you too much, I realise there's not much to think about, least nothin' you've told me," and you hum noncommittally, looking up at the ceiling. The next words that escape you are from a script you'd thought was long buried.

"Yeah but that's kind of the point; I'm not really meant to matter, or be looked at, or thought about -" the words seem to shock even you, eyes going wide as you look to Oliver. The intensity of his stare has your heart hammering against your ribs as you try to back pedal, "sorry- that's not- I mean- sorry, that's really not, anymore that is -" you didn't even believe that anymore, right? Your place in the world as impressed upon you by your own parents for the first ten years of your life. Surely having spent more time by now with Felix and the Cattons than you ever had with them was enough to rewrite a good deal of the cruel way in which you'd been hardwired.

Oliver reaches out, caressing your cheek with that confident smile he only ever seemed to wear when the sun couldn't see him. He tells you that you matter, with absolute sincerity. Then, expression lightening to something fond, even teasing, he warns you not to let Felix catch you talking like that, that his love for you was the kind that would have him throwing a parade just to prove that self-doubt wrong. It was a nice mental image, if only for a moment. You, Oliver, Felix, not necessarily a parade for you per say, but a mess of colour and joy and music in the city, together and happy and -

"I don't know if you'd want that," Oliver's grin is fading, and finally you sit back up, let yourself be wrapped up in him as he continues to trail his fingers across the edge of your face, down your throat, across your collar, "but then again Venetia thinks you don't even know how."

"How what?" Voice barely more than a whisper, you know he can feel how quick your heart's beating, his hand flat and warm on your sternum.

"How to want for yourself, 'least not anything outside of Felix," he keeps his gaze trained on his hand, heel of his palm pressing firmer just over your heart, "which is why I asked; you said you loved me, is that you or Felix talking when you say that?" And finally he looks at you. That tight, sharp feeling in your chest spikes when he meets your gaze. He looks so earnest, so open, so ready for either answer.

But you stand, leaving both yourself, and Oliver's lap cold, but hoping your smile is warm enough compensation. Except you can hear in his voice that he believes Venetia; she'd confirmed what he'd suspected, it's what he left unsaid the night you'd slept with each other. The only thing you wanted was so easily met; to be wanted, and seemingly content with nothing more outside of Felix. A contented sycophant, easy to please and happy to be used; you knew the world was happy with this being your place in it.

And the more you think about it, the more you think Oliver is too.

"Of course it's Felix," you tell him what you're almost certain he wants to hear. No need to scare him off with the expectations of your own feelings on his shoulders. Oliver watches you for a long moment, simply observing as you smile wider, and hope that it comes across as adoring, "which means of course I do love you too, that's a given, Ollie." The sharp discomfort is scraping at your ribs, more painful with each word, hollowing out your chest moment by moment, so you bid him good night, unable to bare the conversation for much longer.

"Just one favour, by the way, if you could," you add by the door. He makes a noise of intrigue, but you can't even bring yourself to look at him. It'll be another just person looking at a placeholder while they're waiting for Felix to be ready to love them back. Usually you don't mind. Usually it's enough and you can still enjoy their company and have your fun. But they aren't Oliver Quick, "just... please refrain from properly fooling around with Venetia? I know I sound like a hypocrite but," you take a deep breath, smiling wide enough that you don't even have to see Oliver, "it kind of goes back well beyond just you."

The next morning, stopping into the study before you head down to breakfast, you intend to collect the book you'd finally found those red flowers in. Top of your pile, you'd left it open on the very page. But you find that someone has turned the page. Scabious, in full bloom, mocking you, surely.

The botany book lay like a bitter seductress on your desk, left open, pages spread and staring up at you; purple fucking pincushions.

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 63 (The Old Man at the Museum)

The Brindleton Light circled from Deadgrass Isle across the bay as a drizzling rain added moisture to the air.

Conrad hadn't forgotten about the ghostly growl he'd heard on his last visit with Heather, and now, more than ever, he needed a distraction.

He hopped on the ferry and made it to the isle just in time for the museum to close, but he hadn't come to the isle for the artefacts.

An old man walked down the museum steps and offered a friendly wave. Conrad froze. He looked strikingly like his own father, though the closer he walked, the resemblance faded.

His eyes were darker, hair straighter, nose too thin, and maybe he was shorter, too. But for a split second, he swore the man could have been Stephen Gordon himself.

"Detective Gordon! You just missed last entry." He leaned down to give friendly Gord a welcome greeting, too.

"Y-you know me?"

"I know everyone! Lived in Brindleton all my life, and when a new copper moves from the big city to our sleepy town, word travels faster than a greyhound."

Conrad smiled at the kindly old man. In the distance, he thought he saw a light flicker through one of the lighthouse's ground floor windows. "I was hoping to check out the Brindleton Light tonight, anyway."

"You like investigating ghost stories in your spare time?"

"Can ghosts turn the lights on?"

The old man's gaze followed Conrad's toward the base of the tower, but all the windows were dark. "No one's lived in there for close to 150 years, but ghosts are crafty souls!"

He chuckled warmly, and Conrad felt at ease in his presence. "Tonight I just needed something to keep my mind off...something else."

The old man nodded, understanding enough from Conrad's stance not to press for more. "Well, if it's a ghost you want, the cemetery is the place, but some say the ghost of the old lightkeeper's dog still stands guard over the tower, long after his master's death. The bulb runs on electricity now, but they say his old dog's ghost still watches the bay for passing ships and barks to warn them of the rocks."

"Sounds like a very good dog," Conrad mused, ruffling Gord's fur. His dog barked happily.

"I could show you around if you like. I've got to lock the stairwell door, anyway."

Conrad smiled. The old lightkeeper and his dog knew the importance of spending time with those they loved. "You know, I'll definitely be back to take you up on the offer another time, but I shouldn't be here. Not tonight."

The old man tipped his cap with a genial wave. Conrad and Gord circled the lighthouse once, but he couldn't find any sign of someone who might've turned the lights on.

He pet Gord on the head. "All these local ghost stories, talk of Grim Reapers and ambrosia... They must have me seeing things at the lighthouse."

Gord offered a friendly bark before they returned to the pier and boarded the ferry to the mainland. Rain misted against his face as the boat carried them toward the faint lights dotting the shoreline. He walked back up the hill from the wharf to Sable Square, taking his time and collecting himself.

Heather was quiet when he walked through the door.

"You waited up for me. I'm sorry."

"I got called in to work for an emergency tum-readjustment, but I would've been up anyway. What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry I just took off. I wasn't trying to scare you, but I had to get my thoughts together. Losing my mother so young was really devastating. I always thought I wouldn't have kids because I didn't want to leave open the possibility they could lose me before they're ready, like I lost her. I love Ash, but it's not the same. He still has you and Malcolm."

Heather sympathized and tried to comfort him. "If you're not ready to be a father, I understand. But when you walked out tonight, I knew more than ever I want a family with you, Conrad. Not just Ash and me, plus you. I love you so much, but if you're never going to be ready..."

"Remember what you said the night I first brought up moving in together? I'm not ready tonight, but I've got months, right? I feel unprepared and totally unready for anyone to call me 'Dad', but you are my family, Heather. And Ash. And this little one, too."

"Conrad, are you sure? This is a bigger commitment than moving in together."

He tried to comfort her fears with a smile. "When Gord and I were out tonight, I spent a lot of time thinking about what my Dad would say if he was here. After we lost my mom, my dad and I leaned on each other for a lot, but I spent years trying to navigate my grief without burdening him further, and I was angry."

"Conrad, I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. He worked a lot and we didn't get to talk much. He didn't like to talk about her, and all I wanted to do was keep remembering her out loud to keep her with us. After he died, I just bottled everything, and when Gord came along I thought that would be it. Me, my dog, and my career."

"But then you met me..."

He took her by the hand and stood from the sofa. "Meeting you changed everything. On my way home, I realized my father showed me until the day he died what family meant to him through the life he gave me. It's not that I don't want this. I love you, I'm just scared. But I'd jump through flame portals to keep you and Ash safe, and I'd do it to protect our baby, too."

He crouched down speak to her small bump. "I promise I'll be ready to be the father to you that my dad was to me."

Heather looked at Conrad with a loving gaze. "We'll always be a team, and you can talk to me about anything, including your parents. You never say much about them, and I never want to pry."

He stood. "I think I know the first thing I need to un-bottle. I only had a few boxes worth of stuff to move when I got here, but I left my parents in a box under the bed in the guest room. You have so many photos of your family and friends all over the house and I told myself there was no need to clutter the walls with more... But I think I need to take my parents out of the box."

With this turn of events, the Nesbitt-Gordon household began planning for a new family member, and Conrad took an important step facing his past. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

[pininghermit]

Mockery of Errors

Pairing: Alucard x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Alucard's got a personal idiot to save him decade's worth of therapy.

AN: some nsfw vocab so minors dni

"Omg oh no I am so sorry."

Three pairs of eyes stare at you.

"I can get myself out," you mumbled, shuffling awkwardly. Turning to leave through the broken window you entered by, you paused. "Oh crap," you muttered, glancing at the shattered glass and then back at the golden-haired vampire, who you assumed was the owner.

"I can pay for the damages," you offered, patting your pockets frantically. You desperately hoped you hadn't been an idiot and left your purse at home. You studiously avoided looking at the vampire's bare, luminous legs.

Was that… rope? Your eyes widened at the crimson bundle peeking out from under the bed. Great. You'd just stumbled into some bizarre threesome. Just your luck.

The commotion seems to snap the supposed lord out of his shock. Though you desperately tried to avoid their gaze, you heard the rustle of clothes and felt the air shift as the vampire lord moved in front of you. And much to your dismay a sword.

Your spine felt like jelly, but you forced a wobbly smile as you looked up at the ridiculously good-looking vampire lord. It all clicked into place. Dammit! He deserved a good threesome. Insanely handsome vampire lords with deary castles deserve a good bang.

"Now, now, my lord," you began, your voice betraying a slight hitch. "There's no need for that. I assure you, I'm no robber." You mentally shoved aside the very inappropriate picture that had just popped into your head, desperate to stay alive.

"This is all just a…jest, you see? A silly little bet with friends. Terrible timing, I admit, and terribly sorry for the interruption. I can, of course, make myself scarce." You finished with a weak attempt at a conspiratorial wink, hoping it landed somewhere between charming and utterly insane.

You flashed a friendly smile at the, ahem, occupants of the bed, who (to their credit) did a fantastic job of conveying annoyance through sheer silence. You waved awkwardly, but they weren't having it.

"Ahem," the vampire lord cleared his throat to catch your fleeting attention. "Do you know where you stand?" He asked, his voice surprisingly weak. He sounded young...a young adult vampire? They came in all ages and formats you mused internally.

Focusing on his question, you tried to hide the relief of finding a young master instead of a slithering nasty vampire."Ah, my lord," you stammered, "we, uh, my friends and I…had no idea a vampire resided here...the cutesy garden in the back yard had us guessing this castle was looked after a kind granny."

That was not the right thing to say. Apparently, even unageing vampires were vain enough to detest being called a granny...to your credit, his white nightgown was not doing him any favors.

Alucard felt a furious blush creep up his neck. Thankfully, you seemed too terrified to meet his gaze.

The shattered window was a godsend. A distracting agent that prevented acknowledging the scene you walked in on.

He towered over you as you sat perched precariously on the windowsill, inspecting the broken glass with an unsettling focus. "Sturdy stuff," you muttered in approval, completely oblivious to the elephant in the room - or rather, the castle.

Not the damn ropes! Adrian groaned silently. He wasn't easily flustered, but this… this was pushing his limits.

Steeling yourself with the air of someone who'd made a grand decision, you rose to your feet. "My lord," you declared, "I can totally replace this glass tomorrow! No worries. Besides, who carries a purse on a ridiculous late-night dare, anyway?"

Adrian let out a sigh so deep it could rival a tectonic plate shift. Clutching his face in his hands, he squeezed his eyes shut. This, he thought hysterically, was worse than a thousand post-nut clarity moments combined. There was no way he could ever face Sumi or Taka again.

He nods. At this point, he would be better off flying away as a bat and never show up to his accursed castle ever again.

Peering out the window, you mumbled, oblivious to the tension, "Yikes, that's a drop. So, about those ropes…" A collective cringe echoed through the room, the occupants unified in their secondhand embarrassment.

"Just use the damn door!" Adrian roared, his voice cracking spectacularly mid-scream.

And thus, with a shattered window, a flustered vampire lord, and a shockingly oblivious mortal, the future of Adrian Tepes, son of Dracula, took a most unexpected turn.

[my-starlights]

I. ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ.

PREV // MASTERLIST // NEXT

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴇᴡ. in commemoration of jjk ending: what would've happened if suguru never defected, and... Shoko did? [pt 1 of 'gone like a wisp of smoke']

ʟɪᴍʙᴏ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ. lowkey au :: angst :: hurt :: self indulgent :: sfw :: cursing :: multiple parts :: highkey really bad so m sorry

ʟᴏꜱᴛ ꜱᴘɪʀɪᴛꜱ. Gojo Satoru :: Ieiri Shoko :: Geto Suguru :: Iori Utahime :: Mei Mei :: Masamichi Yaga :: a whole lot of other characters that my 3am brain can't comprehend

ʀᴜɪ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ. I love shoko and she's being slept on fr </3 this is really self-indulgent and i really dont expect this to go anywhere... enjoy. i just havent seen any shoko defection stuff in her perspective and tried to do her justice...

ᴡᴄ. 2.5k (whoops)

Ieiri Shoko was a living ghost. Not quite human anymore: just an asset for the Jujutsu world and a slave to the people who took her for granted.

Right?

No, Shoko Ieiri wasn’t a ghost. She might have been useful, but she was just a tool killing herself with cigarettes and sadness because, most of all, she could not feel anymore and simply did as she was bidden.

For all the dramatized moping that Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru did about ‘being the strongest’ and having ‘no one quite like us,’ there was no one even remotely similar to what Shoko could do. And so, she suffered in silence as the world kept moving.

2006 was the year when everything seemed to turn for the worse. But, of course, Shoko didn’t know that; she was barely seventeen, after all, and her biggest worries were keeping her smoking habit secret(-ish) from Yaga, stopping Gojo and Geto from starting a full-on fight because someone ate the last limited-edition dark-chocolate Kit-Kat (Shoko had), and healing sorcerers when missions inevitably went south. It was a boring life but better than most others.

So when the three of them were sent to the gymnasium after Gojo forgot to put a veil where Mei Mei and Utahime had done their mission, she didn’t expect anything to happen.

If anything, she half-expected Mei Mei to blow a vessel because Utahime’s crush on Shoko was getting ‘too obvious.’ Shoko knew how 'down bad' Utahime was for her but didn’t believe it.

Her musings were interrupted, per usual, by Satoru and Suguru. They seemed to be gearing up for another argument, and it was the perfect moment for Shoko to slip away for a smoke break. She did, and they hardly noticed, too invested in their own fight.

Apparently, they were being sent by Tengen to escort the Star Plasma Vessel to assimilate with him. Something about this being so important that two Special Grades were needed.

Satoru made sure to send her lots of photos of the fight, and Shoko gave a half-smile, telling him not to get too hurt.

She didn’t feel particularly sad that she wasn’t invited to partake in the mission. She had been going on fewer and fewer missions anyway.

“Shoko!” Yaga said, gravelly voice slightly out of breath - ah, he'd probably been yelling at Gojo and Geto. “I just wanted to apologize.”

She looked at him, confused, and so Yaga continued:

“I didn’t invite you to the Star Plasma Vessel mission. Tengen specifically requested the two of them.”

Shoko laughed, a fake little thing that Yaga didn't seem to notice, because he offered her a wry smile in return. “Oh, sensei, don’t even think about it. I'm not worried about them, they're great together."

(A little too great together. They don't need anyone else.)

--

The two boys returned to Jujutsu Tech far too soon for the mission to be over yet, their faces heavier than she had ever seen. As though the air around them had shifted irreversibly.

It was 2006 – right after the Star Plasma Vessel died – and even though her death was still a shock to Gojo and Geto, they had bonded over their loss and become stronger from it. Together.

(They seemed to forget who had pulled them out of their guilt-ridden headspace, who had woken them up as they shook in nightmares, who had shoved them into sunlight after weeks of grief.)

It was the end of August when Suguru found Shoko alone. She was puffing a new cigarette, and he strolled up to her.

“Oi, Sho. I haven’t seen you in a while. What’s up?”

“Same old, same old. How… how are you? After the vess- after Amanai?”

“It’s tough, but that’s expected of the job. I have Gojo to look after me.” He took a cigarette from her, making heart eyes at the mention of Satoru.

Shoko internally blazed. She had been there every night when Suguru felt the pangs of guilt, when Satoru felt inadequate for the title of ‘the strongest.’ She had been there for both of them, so how dare he?

(Stop feeling emotions. Useless bricks that bring you down, she thought. You’re supposed to be the reserved one.)

“You also have me, dumbass. You... know that, right?” she asked after a couple seconds of silence.

Suguru didn’t seem to respond to that. He laughed a little, and Shoko had never felt a stronger urge to slap some sense into him.

“You look tired, Sho. Have you been getting rest?”

She ignored his question in return. “Geto, I have a question for you.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Do you… do you ever get tired of doing sorcery?” Do you get tired of being used? “You’re forced to risk your life every day to save the people that cause your suffering.”

Suguru thought for a moment. He had always been the thoughtful one. “What brought this on? But I guess not. Sure, it gets exhausting, but it’s rewarding knowing that you’re helping innocent lives.”

“Well,” Shoko deadpanned, “surely you get annoyed that you need to eat curses and feel like throwing up almost every night.”

He laughed again. Shoko left him.

--

When Shoko crashed into Gojo, she wasn’t doing well. She had lost weight, and her once-shining eyes were surrounded by puffy purple shadows. She didn’t sleep much anymore, using her reversed cursed technique to sustain herself. Her face pressed against Gojo's infinity, and she stumbled back, perturbed.

Gojo had finally landed himself in her infirmary once again.

Shoko almost laughed when she realized it had been months since she last saw the white-haired man.

She decided to cut around his shirt to get closer to his broken rib: it was fractured and bound to hurt like hell, and she didn’t want to heal through the fabric and waste precious energy.

Instead of using scissors to cut the cloth, she chose a scalpel. Way back when she had started working in the infirmary, she’d been scared of the tiny, wicked blade. But her hands steadied quickly, and soon enough, she was using it every chance she got. She still had many today: glinting, thin silver blades that she had personalized – diamond edging along each assortment, which she used on rotation. They exuded her RCT and sliced through skin (and fabric) easily and reliably.

Shoko healed his broken rib and the scratches on his knuckles, then moved to leave him on the bed when he grasped her wrist. She stilled as infinity separated his hand from her skin.

“Sho? I’ve been thinking. We should go out for yakisoba sometime soon.”

“I… can’t.”

“Heh? You’ve never said no to an outing!”

“It’s been months since you’ve even thought of inviting me to you and Geto’s shenanigans... I'll pass.”

She turned to face him, and he seemed to finally register her state. His expression softened, only marginally. “You look like shit, Shoko. Let us take you out. We’ll protect you from perverts on the train, and you’ll keep me and Suguru from killing each other. It’ll be like old times.”

Shoko didn’t smile. “I wish I had the free time. There’s more work for me here in the infirmary.”

“Shoko…” Satoru pouted. “I don’t want to exclude you or anything like that—”

Shoko tamped down her frustration and smoothed a mask of indifference over her face. Bastard, she thought. You already have.

She looked into his shining eyes.

“It should be a date for the two of you. I’d hate to impede.”

She wriggled her wrist from his grip and left him confused.

--

The one thing Shoko perhaps appreciated about school was that, even though her talents lay solely in healing, Masamichi Yaga wasn’t stupid and had taught her how to fight.

She was a Grade One sorceress, after all. She had accompanied Geto and Gojo on missions early on and earned her title then, but while everyone pegged her as someone destined to remain in the infirmary, Yaga had insisted she train with him.

In those early missions, Shoko didn't wield swords or axes or her hands like her coworkers - Yaga had her find alternate uses for her tools from the infirmary, already imbued with her cursed energy. After Yaga pushed for a showcase to the higher-ups regarding Shoko fighting on the field, the geezers thought it was novel at first, laughing at the image of a surgeon playing a soldier.

Until, of course, they saw her in action.

She wasn’t flashy like Satoru, nor was she as gruesome as Suguru. Instead, Shoko was swift and surgical. A flick of her wrist could slice through limbs and arteries, or send a blade flying faster than the eye could register. Her stethoscope, too, became a weapon, using it to choke curses.

Still, when the higher-ups realized her abilities extended far beyond the infirmary, they responded the only way they knew how – with fear and control.

“She’s too valuable,” they had said. “Her talents are wasted on the field. We’ll cut back on her missions. She belongs in the school; in the infirmary.”

Shoko hadn’t fought them. She’d stood in front of them, a vision of acceptance, silent and unflinching as they decided her fate. But later, in the quiet of the infirmary, she’d clenched her fists so tightly that her palms bled.

Suguru and Satoru, to no surprise barely offered her comfort. Suguru had patted her on the shoulder awkwardly and muttered something about how at least they appreciated her talent, while Satoru – ever tone-deaf to a situation– said, “Well, you hate missions anyway, right?”

Their words hadn’t helped. They never did.

But Yaga was different. He didn’t need to say much. Instead, he simply brought her to the training field late at night, long after everyone else had gone to bed, and continued to teach her.

At first, his drills were brutal. Shoko returned to the infirmary with bruises that Suguru and Satoru teased her about, but she shrugged them off. Over time, she began to move with sharper precision and greater confidence. Yaga seemed scared of her, poised with the tiny blades.

"Sensei, am I getting better?" she panted one night. It had been weeks since they started training together.

Yaga grunted an approval. "Sure."

"Can we continue practicing?"

"Ah, Shoko. You've always been a good one. Well, the higher-ups found out about this--" he gestured at them fighting, "--and asked us to stop. They say you'll run yourself dry of cursed energy."

Shoko inwardly seethed - she had reversed cursed technique, how the hell could she run out of cursed energy?! - but sucked it up. She had gotten training, recieved her first-grade nomination, and could finally escape from the nightmare of the infirmary. But all good things came to an end, and this was no different.

The next night was the last time they trained; no words were spoken but she trained harder than ever. Yaga chucked at her as they said goodbyes. "You've become a real First-Grade," he said, voice gravelly. "It's a shame this had to end."

Shoko didn’t need praise. Yaga’s quiet acknowledgment was enough.

But she knew the missions wouldn’t come. Not anymore.

She was wrong.

--

The last mission the higher-ups sent her on was a test, she presumed; to moniter that she hadn't become extremely formidable after training with Yaga.

It was a rainy night when Shoko, Geto, and Gojo hopped onto a train from Shibuya.

The mission had been a breeze – a Grade One curse and a couple dozen Grade Twos – a challenge to most but not the three of them.

Shoko barely got to fight. Suguru and Satoru had taken care of most of the work, and the few stragglers she dispatched hardly felt like a challenge. She was more irritated at how she felt like an afterthought, even to her closest friends.

The train back to school was cramped, forcing the trio to stand.

“Why the long face, Ieiri?” Satoru teased. “You’re not still sulking because we took the fun part, are you? Come on, the cleanup’s important too. Someone’s gotta do it.”

Before she could reply, Suguru snorted. “You know he’s just mad you killed that little rat-curse faster than he could finish his fight and get to it, right?”

“I was about to get it and she just killed it! I barely even saw the scalpel! Didn't you see how it tried to eat my finger, Suguru, it—”

Shoko groaned as their bickering escalated into playful shoves. The train car was already stuffy, and their antics weren’t helping.

What did help – although she’d never admit it – was how quickly they noticed when the mood shifted.

The lingering stares from older men sitting on the train weren’t subtle. They leered openly at Shoko, their gazes lingering where they shouldn’t, phones out sneakily taking photos or just looking at her up and down. She shifted uncomfortably, feeling the familiar burn of humiliation and anger crawl up her spine.

Satoru noticed first, his carefree expression hardening into something cold. The train car became silent. “Oi, what’re you looking at?” His voice sliced through the air like one of her scalpels.

Shoko smiled inwardly. They had stopped fighting, just to protect her.

Suguru was right behind him, snatching the phone from one of the men who had dared to take photos. He swiftly deleted the images, his face blank but his cursed energy thrumming with unspoken threat.

They formed a barrier around her, shoulders brushing hers as they shielded her from view. Satoru kept up a running commentary, throwing insults at anyone who dared glance in her direction, while Suguru’s quiet menace was enough to keep the rest at bay.

For once, their protectiveness didn’t annoy her. Her chest bloomed, and for the first time she felt like she belonged. She reached into her satchel.

Shoko secretly hid the tiny Grade Two curse – the rat-looking curse Gojo had wanted to kill– and cupped it in her hands. She was slowly feeding it reverse cursed energy to keep it alive but dead enough not to give any alerts to Gojo or Geto.

Thank God for those creepy men, and them distracting Gojo and Geto from the cursed energy swelling around this curse, Shoko thought. I want to experiment with you, little guy.

They arrived back at school just as she finished the thought, and they bid each other goodnight. Shoko made a quick beeline for her room, all while blaming it on ‘the two of you punks taking up all my energy,’ which wasn’t quite a lie. They knew she was thankful for them taking care of her.

In the silence of her room, Shoko shoved energy into the curse, and marveled as it started to revive from its deadish state, shivering and stopping, wide eyed, just as surprised as Shoko.

Wait. If she could kill of majority of its life force and bring it back, then this must be what the higher-ups were scared of. Just as she had shoved the energy into the rat, she then sucked it out. A rush of energy thrummed through Shoko.

She gaped. She had just transferred cursed energy.

If she could half-kill it and then bring it back to life, then...

This! This was what the higher-ups were scared of.

She withered the curse's arm and regenerated it.

She wrinkled its eyes and let it see again.

Ieiri Shoko smiled. She had found her full potential that night.

Want part two? Send in an ask, starlight!

© property of @ghost-buddies. do not repost, translate or edit.

[poison-damage]

POISON DAMAGE - A POKEMON OC STORY [CH.1]

[Prologue]

TWs for the chapter: kidnapping, child endangerment

art credit: @eirian

A fateful meeting of outcasts.

It was Priscilla’s 7th birthday today.

She walked through the forest, her boots covered in mud as she dragged a long stick behind her, drawing a small path as she wandered. Birthdays were never something monumental to her–even at the young age of seven, she never saw the big deal. Most likely because they never really had money to celebrate, nor did she have friends to celebrate with.

She stopped in her tracks when she saw a caterpie on its back, struggling to get back on its belly. Priscilla walked over to a bush with some nice large leaves, plucked one, and came back to the squirming pokemon. She gently flipped him back over before offering the leaf to the bug type pokemon, squatting next to him.

“Yer probably hungry, aren’t cha? Who knows how long ya’ve been on your back…eat up lil’ guy.” She said softly, but her face remained stoic. The caterpie wiggled excitedly before beginning to munch on the leaf, and Priscilla stood back up. “Try to be more careful, lil guy. I won’t always be around to help ya.”

She dusted off the shorts to her overalls, looking around at the trees. “Did ya make someone mad at ya? Maybe that’s why you were on yer back…” she mused, rubbing her chin in thought.

She then heard some rustling in a bush nearby, and Priscilla looked to it curiously. She tilted her head as she approached it carefully, peeking behind it and blinking a bit. Her expression lit up as she laid eyes on a larger-than-normal female nidoran, growling lowly at her. Living on a nidoran farm, Priscilla saw a lot of different kinds of nidoran and their evolutions, but she can’t remember ever seeing one this large! Priscilla didn’t make any sudden movements, though, especially when she noticed the injuries on the pokemon.

“Yer hurt pretty bad. Did a human do this to ya?” she said, her expression turning into a sympathetic frown. The nidoran bared its teeth more, growling louder. Priscilla took a small step back, holding her hands up. “I’ll get ya some help. Don’t move, okay?” though it was safe to assume in that state, the nidoran couldn’t get very far anyways.

Before she left, though, she set up a quick little nest inside a tree trunk and laid some berries in the nest. “You can rest ‘ere if ya want. No one will bother ya. I’ll be back.” Priscilla then ran back out of the forest to grab what she could to help out the injured pokemon.

—

She came out about an hour later, after telling her parents she’d be out late helping out a pokemon. She came holding a first aid kit and a couple potions along with a lamp(it had gotten dark), looking around for the nidoran. What she found, though, was the pokemon fast asleep in the tree trunk. Priscilla put down the first aid kit and potions, which while she tried to do so quietly, still made the nidoran stir. Priscilla offered a little smile, sitting on the other side of the tree trunk.

She looked up at the sky–there were always so many stars. She loved to look at them. “Ya know, humans have hurt me too,” she said softly, bringing her knees to her chest. “They can be really mean. They say ‘n do hurtful things…but I promise ya I’m not like that.”

She sat there in silence, starting to get a bit sleepy staring at the sky for so long. She eventually drifted off, now laying on her side as she continued her slumber. She was woken from a dreamless sleep, though, when she felt a soft body against hers.

It was the middle of the night as she opened her eyes, looking now at the nidoran who had curled up against her. She smiled sleepily, before she fell back asleep with the smile still on her face. It was nice to have a friend.

—

When they both had woken up, Priscilla had tended to the nidoran’s wounds, and the pokemon seemed very grateful as it nuzzled her leg. She giggled a bit, patting the pokemon’s head gently. 

“I live on a farm that has a buncha nidoran, ya know. I think ya might like it.” The nidoran chirped in response. Priscilla sighed, looking troubled. “Hopefully Ma ‘n Pa aren’t too worried ‘bout me…I guess this aint the first time I’ve fallen asleep in the forest, though.” She grabbed her stick she had left behind, pointing it in front of her with a determined expression.

“Yer name shall be Princess, ‘n one day, when you turn into a big nidoqueen, ya will earn the name Queen!” Priscilla proclaimed loudly, to no one but Princess. Princess chirped happily in agreement, and aggressively nuzzled Priscilla while thumping her leg happily.

They walked out of the forest, Priscilla dragging the stick behind her as she went. 

—

Priscilla got an earful from her parents for staying out all night, but that went in one ear and out the other. It would definitely happen again in the future. Priscilla wasn’t even sure why it was such a big deal–yeah it was her birthday, but she didn’t have friends to celebrate it nor could her parents afford any sort of celebration anyways. The ideal way for her to celebrate was to have fun in the forest and make a new friend.

Priscilla’s parents definitely had ogled over Princess, though–they did run a nidoran farm, after all. But Princess was not as excited to meet them as they were to meet her. She seemed to somewhat tolerate them, though, after observing that they were alright with Priscilla. 

The duo now found themselves back in the forest, Priscilla seated on a stump and Princess chasing after some poor bug pokemon as if she wanted to play. Priscilla was drawing circles in the dirt with her stick, sighing a bit.

The nidoran looked curiously at her, nudging her hand a bit to get her attention. Priscilla snapped out of her gloomy daze, petting Princess before smushing the nidoran’s cheeks a bit with a smile.

“I don’ mean to be so down….” Priscilla said, her voice a little sad. “But I gotta go back to school tomorraw…’s just not fair. All my classmates are bullies. Wish I could just hang out with you instead.” Priscilla kicked the dirt a bit. Then her face lit up, an idea clearly striking her. She looked excitedly at Princess, now smiling.

“I know what we can do! We can skip school t’gether. Maybe we can run away ‘n live here instead.” Priscilla looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’d miss Ma and Pa...but we can always go visit ‘em! I’m sure when we visit it’ll be special, like when Mamaw comes and visits…” she sighed contently, and Princess just rested her head in Priscilla’s lap. She pet the large nidoran, scritching underneath her chin.

“Yeah. I think that’s a real good plan. We can live off th’ land! I’m real good at looking for berries.” Priscilla stood up, patting her face as if to pump herself up. Princess looked up at her curiously before chirping happily. Priscilla pointed her stick in front of her at nothing in particular, huffing up her chest. “Let’s go home ‘n pack all ‘a our stuff, okay?”

—

It was late when Priscilla had packed up a bag with some snacks, a blanket, and other various trinkets. She took her notepad and pen, scribbling a note on the paper:

“Deer Ma and Pa,

Gonna live in tha forust. I wil still viset. 

Lov,

Priscilla”

When she had decided that would do the job, she quietly put the paper on the kitchen counter, looking around to make sure her parents weren’t awake. She then went over to Princess who was asleep on the couch and nudged her. 

“‘S time ta go, Princess. Our new life is going ta be so much fun!” she said excitedly, but in a hushed tone.

Princess yawned a little, shaking off the sleepiness before hopping off the couch and following Priscilla outside, and into the forest.

—

Priscilla had made a nest of leaves and grass, laying her blanket on it, before making a smaller nest for Princess next. The sun was starting to rise, but Priscilla was exhausted from being up most of last night setting up her new ‘home’. She yawned big, laying down in the pile she made for herself and pulling her blanket over her. Princess made herself comfortable in her own nest, closing her eyes.

“We worked real hard t’night, I think we deserve a lil’ nap, don’t ya think?” Priscilla said with a big yawn, and Princess made a tired little noise before adjusting a bit in her spot. Priscilla couldn’t help but notice her pile of leaves and grass weren’t as comfortable as a bed…no matter, though. She’d get used to it. It wasn’t that bad.

Nonetheless, she found herself tossing and turning, before finally falling into a deep slumber. Yeah. She could get used to this.

The duo weren’t asleep for very long, though, when they were woken up abruptly by Priscilla getting caught in a net. Her eyes shot open as she struggled to move. A large man stood in front of her, an umbreon standing next to him. Princess was also caught in a net, and was being loaded onto a truck, and Priscilla started to panic. This wasn’t supposed to be happening! Her and Princess were going to have a nice life together in the forest! 

“H-hey, let her go!! Ya dumb crap head!!” Priscilla screamed at him, struggling in the net, which caused the man to scowl and kick her in the gut. Priscilla felt sharp pain at that, and her vision went black as the man picked her up as well and threw her in the truck along with Princess.

“Stupid fucking brat,” he grumbled, turning on the car.

Princess chirped worriedly at Priscilla who had passed out, and she remained unresponsive as the man drove off with the both of them. Princess began to chew through the net, though it was taking her a while–she was frantic to get them both out of this situation, though.

Right when she had chewed a big enough hole to escape, they arrived at their destination. Princess didn’t have enough time to chew through Priscilla’s net, before the man noticed that the nidoran had broken free from the trap. His umbreon growled lowly at Princess, and she growled equally back, standing in front of Priscilla as if to protect her.

“Umbreon, use bite, and don’t hold back,” the man huffed, and the umbreon obeyed, digging it’s fangs into Princess’s neck, and she yelped in pain. The man then made his way towards the duo, frowning deeply.

“You’ve been a pain in my ass. No longer. And your little brat trainer? She’s seen too much to keep her alive. It’s over. Umbreon, dark pulse.”

The umbreon shot a dark ray from the ring on its forehead, causing Princess to stumble and wince, but she managed to get back on her feet before there was a fierce glint in her eyes. She started to glow, growing larger as she was shrouded in light. When the light faded, she emerged from it a large nidorina, now looking even more enraged than before.

She let out a loud growl before the ground started to rumble and break. She was using earthquake, and the man and the umbreon fell down to the ground and fear filled the man’s eyes. 

“I knew you were trouble,” he growled, but then a rock raised up and hit the back of his head, knocking him unconscious. The umbreon quickly fled the scene, and Princess went over to where Priscilla was and chewed through the rest of the net.

Priscilla finally opened her eyes, but there was a strong pain in her gut and she had trouble moving. Her eyes finally focused, looking up at Princess and slowly registering what was before her. Her eyes widened and she smiled big, sitting up quickly before wincing in pain and laying back down.

“Princess, you evolved! That’s…ow ow ow…that’s so wonderful!” she said, not able to contain her excitement which just made the pain flare up more. But she didn’t care. “Thank ya fer savin’ me…” she said softly, smiling a bit sadly.

Princess nuzzled her face, causing Priscilla to laugh and then groan in pain again. “Owww…What do we do now?” she said, her smiling growing into a frown. “Hol’ on. Maybe you can fetch Ma and Pa for me…otherwise I dunno if I can move, ya see…” Princess nodded in understanding, and ran off to go find Priscilla’s parents.

Priscilla closed her eyes, trying not to move too much since any movement just caused her anguish in the moment. Her eyes watered a little bit, and she couldn’t help but sniffle, reaching up slowly to wipe her eyes. She just hoped the man wouldn’t wake up anytime soon…Priscilla glanced over at his body, her eyes growing wide as she realized his body was still, no sign of breathing apparent. Oh, no. Would she and Princess go to jail? 

After some time had passed, Priscilla’s parents came running after Princess, tears in their eyes as well as they were thanking Arceus that she was alive and with them. Her father picked her up gently, and she began to cry again, gripping his shirt and sobbing into it.

Princess looked worryingly up at Priscilla, but followed the three of them back to the farm.

So, it turns out, they did not end up living the rest of their life in the forest.

[ripple-in-the-wound-and-wake]

Circle of Pine and Riddle

Chapter One: Bad Lives Make Good Stories

W/C: 4,964

“And so, if that isn’t big enough for what you’re doing, you could always create the quadruple piston extender, as covered in chapter 13, page 462. If you will all turn to this page, please…”

Grian stifled a yawn, his eyes watering from the effort of keeping them open. He meant no disrespect to Professor Jumbo—really, he didn’t. Redstone engineering was immensely valuable and horribly complex- but none of that changed the fact that it was the most painfully dull subject he’d ever had the misfortune of sitting through. No wonder he’d put off this one required course until his senior year of uni.

At least he wasn’t the only senior, Grian mused as his gaze drifted a few seats away. Scar Goodtimes, sprawled across his chair like a cat in the sun, was doing a splendid job of making Grian look like a model student. The edge of a brightly colored comic book peeked out from his textbook. He wasn’t even trying to hide it. Either he didn’t care or wanted to see if Professor Jumbo would call him out.

“So, are there any questions?” Professor Jumbo clasped his hands, his thick, shiny mustache curling with his grin. When no one raised their hand, he chuckled. “Ah, of course not. It really is quite simple, isn’t it? In that case, do your reading tonight, because next class we’ll be doing a lab! Isn’t that exciting?”

A few groans rippled through the lecture hall. The professor frowned, brushing at his tie as though physically warding off negativity. “Oh, don’t tell me you all aren’t excited! Hands-on learning is the best type of learning! Now, settle down. I have an announcement to make!”

The class hushed, and Jumbo adjusted his tie. “Now, I know not all of you are freshmen, but please listen anyway. This applies to everyone! I’ve been contacted by an up-and-coming entertainment company called The Watchers. They’re looking for participants for a game show competition and are offering tuition relief—or reimbursement—for the winner!”

Grian perked up at the word reimbursement.

“For freshmen, they’re offering to cover all four years of tuition. For older students, they’ll reimburse what you’ve already paid and cover the rest!” Excited murmurs buzzed through the classroom.

“What’s the competition about?” a student called out from behind Grian.

Professor Jumbo chuckled nervously. “Ah, excellent question! And one I… don’t have an answer to! They wanted to keep it mysterious. Fun, right?”

Another student asked, “When and where is this happening?”

“Seattle!” Jumbo announced with forced enthusiasm. “Next Friday! And we’ll be taking a very nice bus. State-of-the-art, even!”

The chatter dulled.

“A bus? That’s like… what, a twenty-hour drive?” someone muttered.

Dr. Jumbo coughed. “Class dismissed! Anyone interested, stay behind! Don’t forget your lab materials on Thursday!”

As students filed out, Grian stayed rooted in his seat. Full tuition reimbursement… that could solve so many of his problems. His eyes wandered across the room and stopped on Scar. The other senior hadn’t budged.

Of all people, it had to be Scar.

Grian didn’t have an issue with Scar. He hardly even knew the guy. He’d seen him- heavens knew he was hard to miss. He might have had a class with him here or there. But he certainly wouldn’t call them friends, or even acquaintances. No, Grian didn’t know this man well enough to dislike him.

Scar Goodtimes had the kind of face you’d see in a toothpaste ad—clean-cut, annoyingly symmetrical, and impossible to dislike without sounding petty. His green eyes were sharp enough to catch anyone’s attention but soft enough to make it seem like they weren’t trying, which was probably the worst part. He wasn’t movie-star handsome, though; there was a lopsided charm to his grin, a casual disarray to his hair, as if he’d just rolled out of bed and still managed to look better than everyone else in the room.

And then there was the scar, a slash across his nose and cheek that should have made him look dangerous but somehow didn’t. It added just enough intrigue to make people wonder without scaring them off. Polite curiosity, not fear.

He was tall, of course. Broad-shouldered. One of those people who looked like they should be wrestling alligators or modeling expensive suits, not reading superhero comics and watching Disney+ in the back of a lecture hall. And yet, for all his shiny charm, there was something Grian couldn’t stand about him—too perfect, too smooth, too... untouchable.

Even Grian could admit he had presence. The kind that made people lean in when he spoke, laugh when he joked, follow when he led. It didn’t matter if he was talking about Star Wars or theme parks or nuclear physics; Scar could sell you a dream and make you believe it was yours all along.

Which was irritating, really.

Really, very irritating. 

“So, I assume that you both are here for more information about the competition?” The professor asked, clearing his throat. 

Grian simply nodded, as the other student in the room chuckled and closed his textbook. “Now, come on, Dr. Jambo. Who would turn down a wonderful opportunity like this?”

“Ehm- it is Dr. ‘Jumbo,’ but- no, no, nevermind. This is certainly a great opportunity. You both are seniors, correct?” The professor smiled, while beckoning Grian closer.

“Well, I certainly am! Not too sure about pipsqueak over there, though,” Scar said, pointing his head towards Grian, who was making his way toward them. 

“Pipsqueak?” Grian said, the offense slipping into his tone making it sound higher pitched than he would have liked. He was not short. He may not have been as tall as Scar, but he was certainly not ‘pipsqueak’ status.

“Ooh, what an accent! ‘You from across the pond?’” He asked in a terrible British accent, prompting Grian to scowl.

“Yes, I am a senior. And yes, I am from the UK.” He scoffed.

“Lovely! Lovely. Good to see you both are getting along.” The professor laughed nervously, before handing them both some papers. “Here’s the permission slips to go on the trip. Have them turned in as soon as you can.”

Grian then quirked an eyebrow as Scar flipped to the last page, scrawled his signature on the bottom line, and handed it back to the professor. “Sounds good!”

“...Ah! Um. Okay, then.” Dr. Jumbo tucked it into a folder. “One more thing. I was… expecting a few more people to be interested in the trip…”

“Me too! Man, people have no sense of wonder and whimsy in this day and age.” Scar shook his head. “Who wouldn’t want to compete in a super fun game show?”

“So he’s not even in it for the prize money… of course. Why would he need it? People like him never do.” Grian thought to himself, judgmentally.

“Well. See, the thing is, the school agreed to cover the cost for the trip… as long as more than five people attend.”

“...Ah.” Grian sighed. He definitely wasn’t paying out of pocket for the chance to win money.

“No, no, no! Don’t make that face! Listen, if either of you have any friends who attend this school, that would work out! Yeah?” Dr. Jumbo offered nervously.

Scar sighed and snapped his fingers. “Man, if only my best buddy Cub hadn’t gone abroad this semester! He would have been so down for this.”

The professor's face fell further, and Grian huffed. “I suppose I can ask my younger brother… and he has a good few friends who are the… impulsive type.”

He perked up, and Grian swore he saw his mustache curl up at the ends. “Oh, isn’t that just wonderful? Well, I won’t keep  you much longer. Let me know if there are any updates!” He gave them both warm smiles.

Grian nodded curtly and grabbed his bag, keeping his face as neutral as possible. He could still hear Scar’s bright, effortless laughter as he stepped into the hallway, and for some reason, it made his jaw clench.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Honestly. Who’s that cheerful over paperwork?”

Scar’s face—annoyingly symmetrical, stupidly charming, absolutely not worth thinking about—flashed briefly in his mind. Grian scoffed at himself, glaring at the floor as he walked. He didn’t dislike Scar. He didn’t like him either. He was just...there. Obnoxiously. Intrusively. Everywhere.

With a sigh, Grian adjusted his bag strap. A game show, a chance to clear some bills, and Scar Goodtimes for company on a 20 hour trip? This was going to be unbearable.

But tuition reimbursement was worth it. Probably.

He cast one last look at the classroom door behind him and started walking faster, as if that might put some distance between him and the man who, for some reason, still hadn’t left his head.

˖  ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Grian didn’t look up from the vegetables he was chopping as Jimmy came through the door. “How was your day?”

“How was your day?” Jimmy mocked in a posh accent, ditching his bag by the door and walking into the kitchen. “Ugh, stew again? Would it kill you to cook up burgers every once in a while?”

“Well, why don’t you cook then, Timmy?” Grian rolled his eyes, smiling a bit when his brother glared at the nickname.

“Nah. Just feed me better, won’t you?” Jimmy sat himself up on the counter and stretched. You could tell that they were related once you were told, but most people didn’t assume it at first glance. Grian focused on the steady rhythm of the knife against the cutting board, the sharp taps filling the space between them. Jimmy swung his legs idly from the counter, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world—because he didn’t.

It wasn’t fair, really. Jimmy was younger, but he was taller, stronger, and healthier, with that golden hair that always seemed to catch the light just right. By contrast, Grian's hair was a dull, mousy shade of blonde, perpetually messy from rushing between classes, work, and everything else he had to juggle. His glasses kept slipping down his nose, and his hoodie hung loose over his slight frame, doing him no favors.

“Burgers are bad for you,” Grian muttered, dumping the chopped carrots into the pot and trying to focus on the stew instead of the nagging feeling in his chest.

“Not if you make them at home!” Jimmy shot back, grinning. “You can put vegetables in them or something. Isn’t that a thing? Stealth health?”

“That’s not how it works,” Grian said, but his voice faltered. Jimmy laughed, loud and carefree, like he always did. The kind of laugh Grian hadn’t heard himself make in years—not since before everything had changed.

Jimmy leaned back on his palms, perfectly at ease. He had that easy charm that made people gravitate toward him, his honey-brown eyes bright and lively, a stark contrast to Grian’s almost-black ones that seemed to swallow the light. Jimmy fit in wherever he went, while Grian… didn’t. Grian kept his head down, went to class, and came home. That was his life now. School and keeping Jimmy fed, housed, and alive. He was fine with that. He had to be.

“Oi, you’re spacing out again,” Jimmy said, snapping his fingers in front of Grian’s face. “What, are you burning something? Because it smells fine so far.”

Grian swatted his hand away, feigning annoyance. “Get off the counter, you’re in the way.”

Jimmy didn’t budge. “You’re so grumpy, you know that?” he said with a smirk, his golden hair catching the kitchen light just enough to make it look like he’d spent all day in the sun.

Grian shot him a half-hearted glare but didn’t argue. He didn’t have the energy for it, not lately. “You’re impossible,” Grian mumbled, stirring the pot with a bit more force than necessary.

“And yet, here I am, gracing you with my presence,” Jimmy replied dramatically, his grin as blinding as ever.

For a moment, Grian considered throwing a carrot at him. Instead, he stirred the stew again, his reflection rippling in the surface. Jimmy deserved someone better than him—someone who could laugh like that, bright and unrestrained, without the weight of everything pressing down on them. He wished he could be a parent to him, instead of a clueless kid himself.

“Just don’t fall off the counter,” Grian said finally, glancing at his brother.

Jimmy raised a brow, amused. “Oh, don’t worry, mum. I’ll try to survive your world-class cooking.”

Grian sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. Almost. “Do you want to go to Seattle?”

Jimmy wrinkled his nose. “Um, why? You having a midlife crisis already? We only just moved to Cali.”

“No, not permanently, idiot.” Grian scoffed, adding more salt to the stew. “One of my professors got this offer for this competition up north. They… they offered to cover the winner’s full tuition.”

Jimmy’s eyes widened. “Shit, really? Like, the whole thing?”

“Yeah.” Grian said simply, turning the heat down to a simmer. 

“Huh, never took you as the type to take risks. Are we really that strapped for cash?” Jimmy snickered, but then hesitated when he saw Grian’s expression. “...Wait, G? Do we really not have the money?”

“Look, don’t worry about it. Just focus on getting through college. But yeah, it would be a huge load off my back if at least one of our tutions were covered.” Grian said, filling a spoon with broth and handing it to Jimmy. “Taste test?”

Jimmy took a sip and nodded appreciatively. “Mmm, cloves?”

“Yup. Does it work well?”

“So good.” He stuck the spoon back into the spoon and took another sip. “And of course I’ll go. I’d never let my poor, timid older brother be stranded all alone up north!”

“Ugh, shut it. You brat.” Grian said fondly, pouring a bowl of stew for his brother. “Oh, and also… Do you know anyone else who would want to go? Apparently the school will only pay for us to go if we have a certain number of people.”

“Oh! I’ll ask Joel. He’d totally be down.” Jimmy enthused, picking out some mushrooms from his stew and putting them on a napkin.

Grian rolled his eyes. Of course… Joel. Jimmy’s best friend since they were, what, eight? He never liked the kid, he was loud and obnoxious. “First of all, eat your vegetables. Second of all… any other friends?”

“Mushrooms aren’t vegetables, they’re fungus. And Joel is great! I love Joel, he’s my best mate! And he’ll probably bring Lizzie along- you like her! You said she was ‘intelligent’.”

“Correction: I said she was too intelligent to be dating him.” Grian tsked, scooping more produce into Jimmy’s bowl. “But fine, fine, do what you want.”

Grian caught his own reflection in the kitchen window—his tousled hair, the dark rings under his eyes from too many late nights spent juggling assignments and worrying about bills. He couldn’t remember the last time he had let himself relax.

“Well, you’ve got a plan now, right?” Jimmy asked, licking his spoon clean. “Joel and Lizzie are in, and you’ve got me. This could actually be fun! If we’re lucky, we could win that tuition money, and you won’t have to worry about—”

“I know.” Grian cut him off, his voice a little quiet. “But I still have to make sure it all works out.”

Jimmy slid off the counter, stretching with a yawn. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But hey, we’ve got this, G. Don’t stress it too much. It’ll be an adventure, and that’s something, right?”

Grian didn’t know if he was convinced, but he nodded anyway, offering his brother a tight smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Jimmy grinned back at him, oblivious to Grian’s unspoken worries. “Alright, well, I’m gonna go call up Joel. Don’t burn down the kitchen, okay?”

“I won’t,” Grian said, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks, Timmy.”

Jimmy gave him a thumbs-up as he grabbed his phone, heading for the living room.

For a moment, Grian stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the simmering pot. He grabbed his phone and sent out a few texts of his own. It might not be easy, but if there was one thing Grian knew how to do, it was make things happen.

˖  ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

WATCHERS ENTERTAINMENT: PARTICIPATION AGREEMENT

This Participation Agreement (the "Agreement") is made and entered into as of the date signed below by the undersigned participant (the "Contestant") and Watchers Entertainment, a Washington state-based organization ("We," "Us," "The Watchers"), collectively referred to as "The Parties."

1. PURPOSE OF AGREEMENT

By signing this Agreement, the Contestant agrees to participate in the competitive event (the "Event") hosted by The Watchers Entertainment. The Event will take place at a location(s) undisclosed prior to commencement, and the Contestant agrees to follow all instructions, rules, and procedures as outlined by The Watchers Entertainment prior to, during, and after the Event.

2. ELIGIBILITY AND PARTICIPATION

Eligibility: Participation is exclusively available to individuals who are attending an accredited university and who are over the age of 18. 

Competition Details: The Contestant acknowledges that the full details, format, and rules of the Event are confidential and will not be disclosed until the Event has commenced. Contestants understand and agree that they will not receive specific information about the challenges until they are being executed.

3. CONDUCT DURING THE EVENT

The Contestant agrees to:

Participate in the Event voluntarily, adhering to all instructions and rules as set by The Watchers.

Refrain from engaging in any behavior that could endanger the integrity or safety of the Event.

Be subject to any changes, modifications, or additions to the Event as deemed necessary by The Watchers, which may include alterations to the format, location, and/or timing of the Event.

4. RISKS AND LIABILITY

Assumption of Risk: The Contestant fully understands and accepts the inherent risks associated with the Event, including, but not limited to, physical injury, emotional distress, mental fatigue, and potential environmental hazards. Contestant acknowledges that The Watchers will not be held liable for any injuries, damages, or losses sustained during the Event.

Indemnification: The Contestant agrees to indemnify, defend, and hold harmless The Watchers, its employees, agents, sponsors, or any affiliated parties, from any and all claims, lawsuits, liabilities, or damages arising from or related to participation in the Event, including, but not limited to, injury, death, trauma, or other personal harm.

No Claims: The Contestant waives the right to pursue any claims, whether civil or criminal, against The Watchers Entertainment for any reason related to the Event, including any unforeseen circumstances or injury occurring during the Event.

5. USE OF IMAGE AND PERSONALITY RIGHTS

By signing this Agreement, the Contestant grants The Watchers permission to film, photograph, and record their participation in the Event, including any pre- and post-event footage, and consents to the use of such materials in promotional and commercial content without compensation. The Watchers may record footage of the contestant at any time, regardless of the knowledge of the participant.

The Contestant further agrees that The Watchers may manipulate, edit, or alter any footage or content for the purposes of creating promotional materials, broadcast, or digital distribution.

6. NO DISCLOSURE OF CHALLENGE DETAILS

Contestants understand that: They will not be informed about the full scope of challenges or tasks until the challenges have been completed. The Watchers retain sole discretion over all challenge-related decisions, including when and how challenges are revealed.

7. LIMITATION OF LIABILITY

In no event shall The Watchers, or any party associated with the Event, be held responsible for any loss of property, emotional or psychological distress, or bodily harm occurring to the Contestant, either during or after the Event. This includes any injuries sustained due to natural hazards or accidents.

The Watchers shall not be liable for any loss, damages, or issues arising out of Contestant's failure to properly prepare for the Event, nor for any actions taken by Contestant during the course of the Event, including unauthorized actions or behaviors.

8. CONFLICT RESOLUTION AND ARBITRATION

Any dispute arising out of or relating to this Agreement or the Contestant's participation in the Event shall be handled exclusively by The Watchers' CEO. The Contestant waives the right to seek resolution through any third-party legal action, mediation, or arbitration. Decisions made by The Watchers’ CEO are final and binding.

9. TUITION REWARD AND WINNING CRITERIA

The Contestant acknowledges that:

The specific criteria for determining winners and the number of winners are at the sole discretion of The Watchers. While the potential for full tuition reimbursement is outlined, the Contestant understands that The Watchers reserves the right to adjust, limit, or eliminate this reward at any point before, during, or after the Event.

Final Decision: All prizes and rewards are subject to final decisions made by The Watchers, including the timing, manner, and distribution of said rewards.

10. ADDITIONAL TERMS

Changes to the Agreement: The Watchers reserve the right to modify, update, or amend this Agreement at any time. The Contestant will be notified of such changes, but continued participation in the Event will constitute acceptance of the modified terms.

Governing Law: This Agreement shall be governed by the laws of the State of Washington.

By signing below, the Contestant acknowledges having read and understood the terms outlined in this Agreement, and agrees to participate in the Event under these terms.

Signature:

Grian X. Solidarity

Printed Name: Grian X. Solidarity

Date: April 25th, 2024

Grian set the pen down as he read over the contract again, stamping down the wary feeling in his gut as he looked at his name penned in the bottom left-hand corner. The clattering of the kitchen utensils and the warmth of the evening seem so ordinary, but here he is, staring down the absurdly legalistic, typewritten terms on the page, each clause more convoluted than the last The contract was heavy with legal jargon and fancy words, but the prize was clear enough.

"Tuition reimbursement." Just like the professor had said.

He’d read that phrase a dozen times now, and each time, it felt like a little knot of tension in his chest tightened. His fingers traced the edge of the paper absently as his mind started to race. The words on the page blurred momentarily as Grian shifted in his seat. He was used to making decisions. He was used to being the responsible one. But this… this felt different. Too much was riding on this.

He looked at the contract again. ‘Assumption of risk.’ ‘Indemnification.’ ‘No claims’.

His fingers tightened around the edges of the paper. “They won’t take responsibility for anything. Not dangers. Not injuries. Nothing.” The thought of some unknown challenge, something they could change at will, gnawed at his gut. He couldn’t help but think of all the twisted legal loopholes in contracts that he’d seen referenced in those documentaries. The ones about people getting duped into signing away their lives for a chance at fame or fortune. Was this any different? Of course it wasn’t.

“Alright, here we go, Grian. Just hand it in, embarrass yourself on television, get the money, pay the tuition, get Jimmy’s life back on track. Simple.” He muttered to himself, pushing his glasses up his nose. His little brother didn’t deserve to live in his one-bedroom flat, eating the same stew Grian had made almost every day that week because he couldn’t afford to buy them meat. He should have been back home, with their parents, being young and reckless and not having to worry about whether his older brother was going to be able to pay his phone bill that week. 

If the competition was anything stupid or dangerous, he would make Jimmy back out. If they took away the prize, he would back out as well. No harm, no foul. 

He sighed and filed it in away in his bag.

˖  ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

“Alright, attendance one last time before we head out! Gem?”

“Present!” a girl called out, the only one there Grian didn’t recognize. She had long, curly red hair braided neatly down her back, and light circular glasses that sat on the tip of her nose. She didn’t even look up from her phone, her fingers tapping away on the screen with practiced ease.

“Grian?”

“Present.”

“Jimmy?”

“Here.”

“Joel?”

“Huh? What?” The boy with rich brown hair and a dyed green streak in his bangs looked up from his conversation, his arm still around his girlfriend. “Oh, here.”

“Elizabeth?”

“It’s Lizzie,” the girl with pink hair corrected politely, her voice light but firm.

“Ah, right. Sorry.” Professor Mumbo coughed awkwardly, tapping his pen on the clipboard. “Scar?”

Silence.

“Scar Goodtimes?”

Grian scanned the area, looking for the aforementioned student. The group began to fidget slightly, some checking their phones or adjusting their bags. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Grian saw him: a man half-jogging up to the group in dark blue jeans and a white t-shirt, suitcase tumbling haphazardly behind him.

“Aw, man, I’m so glad I’m not late! I had to drop off my kitty with my mom and I just couldn’t leave her cute little sad face!” Scar said, catching up to the group with his trademark smile, slightly out of breath but no less enthusiastic.

“Oh, well, that’s quite alright. Do try and let me know when you’re running behind, then. Don’t want anyone getting lost.” Mumbo chuckled, crossing his name off the list. He flipped the clipboard shut with a crisp motion. “Alright, then! Is everybody ready? Bags all accounted for? Snacks? Water?”

The group collectively murmured some affirmatives, though Grian was pretty sure Joel hadn’t even looked up to answer. Mumbo took the silence as a yes and began ushering everyone toward the minibus.

“We’ve got a full day of driving until we reach our hotel at 8. Then a couple more hours in the morning, okay? I assure you all that I passed my license exam with flying colors!”

The remark earned a few chuckles, though Grian wasn’t entirely reassured. He lingered at the back of the line, letting the others file onto the bus first.

The bus itself wasn’t exactly cramped, but it wasn’t a typical charter bus either. It was smaller, more like a glorified van with just enough seats for everyone, if they shared. Grian paused in the doorway, scanning the seating arrangements. The scene brought an unwelcome wave of deja vu, memories of scrambling for a spot on grade school field trips flashing uncomfortably in his mind.

Joel was up front, predictably next to Lizzie, who had claimed the window seat. Jimmy sat across from them, but as Grian approached, his little brother pointedly plopped his bag onto the seat beside him, a clear signal. Fine. Grian didn’t care. It didn’t matter.

Further back, the stranger, Gem, had sprawled across both seats with her legs stretched out, chatting animatedly on her phone. Grian’s eye twitched. If he were more confrontational, he might have told her off for hogging the space.

That left… sigh. Scar.

Scar seemed to notice Grian’s predicament immediately, standing up with a wide grin. “Here, you can have the window seat! I prefer the aisle anyway—don’t wanna climb over people if I gotta move!” He stepped into the aisle, gesturing with a salesman’s flourish.

Grian hesitated but relented, muttering a stiff “Thanks” as he slid into the seat. Secretly, he was grateful for the window seat. He hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before; he’d been too busy stressing and fretting over the competition and what his plans were if he didn’t win or it turned out to be a scam or they had to dress in embarrassing costumes or-

“So, you’re a senior too, huh?” Scar’s voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts. “Why haven’t I seen you around? You know, I pride myself on knowing almost everyone in our class. Are you a transfer? A spy? Or, wait—are you just really, really shy and nervous?”

Grian felt his face heat up as he heard Jimmy cough to hide a laugh from the seat in front of them. Irritated, he kicked the back of Jimmy’s seat, drawing a surprised yelp from his brother.

“I—no! I’m not.” Grian huffed, his voice sharper than intended. “I’m not any of those things. I just… mind my own business.

“Yeah, but… hm, I guess you’re just really quiet! And you’re pretty small, so maybe I just didn’t see you!” Scar shrugged carelessly, irritatingly.

Grian scowled and glared out the window as the bus began to move. Everyone always called him short, though he was statistically and verifiably average height. He was sure Scar in all his six-foot glory got some amusement out of it- Jimmy sure did. The day his little brother realized he’d outgrown him was apparently the highlight of his life.

Jimmy… he hoped that idiot had packed properly, like Grian told him to. He wouldn’t let him check his bag, claiming that he wasn’t a child and knew how to pack himself for a trip. Grian found himself slipping an extra toothbrush, toothpaste, hand sanitizer and deodorant into his bag anyway. Just in case of emergencies. He didn’t mean to treat Jimmy like a child, but it was hard not to when his brother loved to act like one! 

He stared outside as the homes and commercial buildings gave way to rocky, dusty hills scattered with dark green brush. His head leaned against the window as his body settled into the calming, rocking motion of the wheels against pavement. He would sleep for a bit.

He’d be somewhere new when he woke up.

A/N:

For the rest of the fic, if there is a trigger, "Trigger Warning" will be written in the beginning notes, and the full list of trigger warnings will be at the End notes. Particularly graphic scenes will be separated with a line, and there will be another line at the end of the scene. SFW Summaries of graphic scenes will be at the end!

Updates every Friday

Constructive criticism, feedback, and advice is always appreciated <3

Actually having a tumblr account is odd for me, I usually lurk without an account. Let me know if I need to fix anything!

Previous

Next (Coming 12/13/24)

[ell-vellan]

how about bull musing on pain from the wip game :3

This is something I went off on a tangent with in a fic at some point, but it detracted from the scene it originated from, so it spun off to become its own thing. Idk if it'll become a full-fledged story one day or if a perfect place exists for it somewhere in a story I haven't written yet, but for now I'll just share here.

Bull knew pain intimately well. After ten years on Seheron, years of Ben Hassrath training before that, and the Ben Hassrath re education that came after, he'd had to make an ally of pain. Because it was gonna be there regardless, and he preferred to think of it like a sort of low-grade asshole subordinate he couldn’t reassign to somebody else, rather than accept it was an enemy he’d never defeat. Now it was a constant companion. Still a low-grade asshole he couldn’t shake, like a drunk idiot who wouldn’t ever shut up and liked to fuck with him when it was most inconvenient, but one that still had its uses now and then.

Pain could be a distraction. It could bring you into the present, into your body, wake you up in a way nothing else could, make you alert and alive to the world. Pain you couldn’t deal with any other way could be made physical, and that way, could be healed a little easier. He wasn't interested in pain necessarily because he liked to hurt people for the sake of hurting them. Not people he cared about, anyway –  he channeled his anger into hurting people who deserved it, and that was satisfying in a different way. But those people weren't people to him, they were just assholes who got what was coming to them. Bull was happy to bring them the trouble they were asking for.

Pain was just another tool he could use to help people. A more advanced, dangerous tool, maybe. But Bull felt that, of anyone, he had a deep understanding of how to wield it.

Pain that didn't cause damage, that wasn't dangerous, could be used to change the pathways in somebody's brain that made them afraid. Pain that didn't kill you didn't always make you stronger, but done right, it could fix you up. Like, “see? This might hurt, but you're still okay. You're strong, you're resilient. You're safe.”

He liked the challenge of it. Putting himself or someone else through their places, watching them rise to meet the challenge, the satisfaction of getting through difficulty. He liked the breaking down part, learning what made each individual tick, getting beneath their skin, earning their trust, then undoing them just right with mechanical precision. Careful, experienced, like a master craftsman, taking them apart piece by piece, until they were nothing but a loose collection of parts, all without doing any permanent damage.

But his favorite part was building them up again. He liked the feeling of pride he got, watching someone get their head back on straight, learning to accept the words and lessons he gave them, incorporate them into their sense of self. He liked to see the improvements he caused. He liked maximizing efficiency, removing roadblocks. Made him feel like he was doing right by the Qun, back when that was a thing that mattered. Ironing out the wrinkles, one body at a time, made the world make sense.

He even liked the moment between broken and fixed, where he got to offer comfort. Made him feel good to reward people who had withstood that for him. It was a privilege to bear witness to the depths of their lowest lows, and convince them of their own bravery when it was done.

It took the utmost trust to let somebody hurt you on purpose. 

Pain was little different for Bull, compared to the people he gave it to. Regular folks spent their lives avoiding pain, unless they were born masochists who sought it out. Bull didn't consider himself a sadist, either. He simply had a broader understanding than most of what pain could be, and accepted it wasn't something anybody could avoid, so might as well learn to live with it.

Pain was part of Qunari life, part of his training, indelibly wrapped up in all their philosophy. Pain was a focus point, and the Ben-Hassrath didn't shy away from using it like the tool it was.

 Bull was used to being the biggest, strongest guy around. So what if he let Krem hit him with a wooden board or let Dalish practice a new spell on him? He knew in his bones he could stop them anytime he wanted. He was in control of it. Always. 

But for someone like El, who spent her life avoiding pain, fearing it, hiding it from others in case they found her weak, who was fine-boned and easily damaged, not trained to take a hit like he was - It was a lot to ask. He knew it was. 

Which is why he never pushed. If it was something, maybe, that they came to naturally, that she didn't automatically slam shut the door on - well then, that'd be different.

[wicca-wicca-whack]

Soulmate

Tom Paris x Reader

2365 words

Note: I literally didn't know Tom's mom was alive until i was already writing this. Just don't think about it.

Tom didn't believe in soulmates. He did, once. Before his mom died.

He can remember laying in his bed while she read him some bedtime story- something cheesy, where the main characters lived happily ever after, and the hero of the story called the love interest their soulmate.

“What's a soulmate?”

She'd looked down at him curiously as she thought, shutting the book closed. In the moment, he was so sure it was such a powerful thing that she was having trouble putting it into words.

As he grew up, it felt more like she was trying to make it feel more magical than it was.

“A soulmate… is like your best friend. Someone who will stick by you through everything. Who would drop just about anything for you. Who loves you just as much as you love them. Like your dad and me. You just… click.” 

He'd scrunched his face up, disgusted at the idea of love, of his mom and dad kissing, and she'd laughed at him, putting him to bed for the night.

It was about a year later, when he was in the hospital, watching doctors try and call his father while other doctors tried frantically to keep his mom from succumbing to her injuries from the hovercar crash, when the illusion of soulmates started to fade.

Most of the girls he dated were nice, sure. But he’d never really felt that click. Nothing that special. He liked them. They got along. That was enough.

None of them stayed, either. Which, when he landed himself in the penal colony, he figured that was for the best. Nobody to miss, nobody to miss him. Admiral Paris certainly didn’t.

Being recruited for Voyager didn’t really change any of those thoughts. And aside from Harry, no one was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt anyway.

He first met you after the dust settled- once they were far enough from the explosion and the Ocampa homeworld that everyone could breathe and settle into the new normal.

With both Harry and B’Elanna putting in extra hours helping on necessary repairs, he was taking his dinner alone. Some awful leola root stew that he could barely stomach, but he had to be careful with his rations. He might end up needing something big. Or Neelix could cook something even worse.

He shivered at the thought.

He’d been pulled from his loathing musings by the clink of a tray being set down at his table. When he glanced up, he met your eyes. You were dressed in a yellow-topped uniform, one gold pip pinned to your collar.

“Hello, Ensign.”

“Lieutenant.” You’d taken your seat, looking down at your tray. “Enjoying tonight’s menu?”

“Enjoying is a stretch.” He’d poked at it, listening to the way you snorted at him. “It’s erring on the side of edible.”

“Surely that’s dramatic.” He’d blanched as you took a big bite with your spoon, paling quickly and trying not to cough. “It’s- it’s quite edible, actually.”

He’d almost laughed then, wholly amused with the way you were trying to convince him, or maybe even yourself, that you could eat the dish no problem. It was almost comical.

“Right. My bad.”

You’d offered him a smile, busy taking a drink from your water. “Hope I’m not interrupting your brooding.”

“Brooding?” He scoffed.

“Yes, brooding. It’s all you’ve done since you arrived on board.”

“Have you been watching me?”

“No.” You snorted. “No, this corner just always has this awful foreboding energy coming from it.”

“Foreboding?” He’s incredulous now, and rightfully so. “It’s not foreboding.”

“Why do you think the tables around you are empty?”

“Because,” he’d leaned forwards conspiratorially, “no one wants to be associated with an add-on from a penal colony.”

“Bah.” You tried another bite of your soup with a frown. “As if that makes you any worse than anyone else here.”

“Makes me worse than a good chunk of the people here.” He’d almost smiled as he leaned back.

“Maquis, Starfleet,” you’d shrugged, “I don’t see why it matters. As long as we’re all trying to get home, it’s all the same to me.”

He raised a brow at you. Novel thought. “Not everyone sees it that way.”

“They should. What’s the point in fighting amongst ourselves when we just need to get back in one piece?”

You’d talked together much too long, only pulling away from the conversation when Neelix dimmed the mess hall lights, looking a tad embarrassed. He’d learned quite a bit about you- you were security personnel. You’d done your physical training in America. Your family was very close, and you, like most of Voyager, were dreading the long ride.

You shot him a smile as you got up, taking your tray to dispose of it. “I’ll see you around, Paris.”

You were gone before he could think of a reason to walk you to your quarters.

The next time he sees you is at Sandrine’s. You’d come in off-duty, while they were keeping the program running to people to have breaks as often as they needed. He’d been busy- surely you had too. He’d seen you around, sure, but you hadn’t really had time to chat. 

He smiled, ordering a couple of drinks from the lady of the bar before coming over, drinks in hand, handing you one. “Welcome to Sandrine’s.”

You’d looked down at the drink skeptically. “What is this?”

“Sex on the beach.” Your ears flushed, but the look on your face didn’t change. “I figured a drink where you don’t really taste the liquor was safe.”

You nodded, taking a long drink before looking up at him again. “So this is Sandrine’s.”

He swept his arm out, presenting the space to you. “Plenty of pool tables and darts.”

“Do you play pool?”

He scoffed. “Do I play pool? I did my physical training in the same city as this place, of course I do.”

“Play me.” You headed for an empty pool table, and he stifled a grin.

“I won’t go easy on you.”

“I’d be offended if you tried.”

You’d practically mopped the floor with him. “Ah, I let you win.”

“Bullshit,” you laughed at him, a sweet, mirthful sound, and all he could think is that, God, he wanted to hear that again.

“I did!”

“A rematch then. Once you fetch us a couple more drinks.” You began re-racking the table, and he grinned, setting the pool cue down and heading to order a couple more drinks from Sandrine.

“Who’s that?” 

He almost jumped, glancing at Harry. “...An Ensign. In tactical.”

“You’re spending a lot of time together.”

“It’s a couple rounds of pool.”

“Is that the same Ensign you spent hours with in the mess?”

He flushed a little, trying to shake it away as he took the drinks. “You’re looking into it too much, Harry.” He motioned back to the dart board. “And you’re losing.”

He darted away while Harry’s attention was turned, bringing drinks back over. “Hope you don’t mind a plain screwdriver.”

You took it with a little smile. “Thank you. Your break.”

He lost. Again. 

“Well now you’re just getting lucky.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Paris.” You grinned at him, pushing some stray hair back as you checked the time. “I gotta ditch.”

“Tired already?”

“Paris, it’s 0100.”

He checked the time. Oh. It was. 

“I’ll see you.”

He looked up, but once again, you were gone before he could say much more.

But, unlike the first time, you started to seek him out more often. Or maybe he was seeking you out. He wasn’t really sure. It didn’t really matter either.

You were wedging yourself in wherever you could- mostly mealtime of course, but slowly, you started hanging out outside of the mess. First the holodeck. Then, his quarters. Never yours- you’d told him once you didn’t like having people in your space all the time. You’d never offered, and he never asked. He liked having you in his space, anyway. You just sort of… clicked, it felt like.

You’d said as much, once. Huddled on the opposite side of the couch from him, wearing casual clothes, the first day off duty you’d both had line up. You’d agreed to one Scooby-Doo movie marathon, and you seemed to be enjoying yourself.

“You know,” he’d turned his head to look at you as you spoke, “I actually like having you around.” Your tone sounded like this was some novel concept.

He’d barked a laugh at you, shaking his head. “Is that shocking or something?”

“Just didn’t expect to like you that much.”

Your eyes were trained on the viewscreen, so you probably didn’t see the look on his face when his heart skipped a full beat. Honestly, it wasn’t as romantic a feeling as he thought it would be. He felt a little like he was dying.

“Well, get used to it. Everyone likes me that much.”

“Right.” You peeked at him, looking much too amused for his liking. “Name one person-”

He opened his mouth to speak.

“-Besides Harry.”

He gave you a mock-offended look. “B’Elanna.”

Later, he’d recognize the way you deflated, but in the moment, all he saw was the way you shrugged, returning your gaze to the movie. “Touche.”

You’d left as soon as that movie ended. He’d almost whined, since you were supposed to stay much longer- it was only 1700- but he didn’t, just walking you to the door and trying not to wilt at your terse goodbye.

It’s maybe a week later he decides he’s going to ask you on a date. He’s either got to try or he’ll lose his chance, he figures, and he’d rather say he tried.

That’s also the day you tell him about your date with Nozawa.

“A date? With Nozawa?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “All he does is spend time in the gym.”

“It’s nice to have a hobby,” you shrugged.

“Is pulling muscles a hobby?”

You swatted at his arm. “Be nice, Thomas, I’m telling you because I’m looking for support.”

“I’m being supportive. I’m just saying you could do better.”

You scoffed, shaking your head at him. “I have to go get ready.” You moved to get up from the table, and he felt a little empty.

“Have fun!” Harry called his encouragement after you before turning to look at him. “Dude. Really?”

“Really what?”

“You know what. It’s not her fault you took too long to ask her out.”

He scoffed again, digging at his food.

“...But she could probably do better.”

It was just two hours later he opened the door to his quarters to see you, looking irritated. Your hair was… puffy, was how he’d describe it. You were wearing a shiny, halter top jumpsuit with flared legs.

“...What kind of date was that?”

“Disco.” You shoves past him into his quarters, taking his neat whiskey and downing it, despite his protests.

“What is up with you?” He asks, incredulous. “Was the date that bad?”

“You were right.”

“What?”

“It was boring.” You look at him, and, for a moment, he could swear you were about to hit him.

“I’ve never heard of a boring disco,” he tries, hoping to temper your irritation.

“He wouldn’t even dance with me.”

That takes him a minute to process, gears whirring in his brain as he looks you up and down. “Why would he even bring you to a disco then? I think dancing is, like, a given.” He moves past you, further into his quarters, retrieving you each a water, handing yours over as you thanked him.

“Beats me. And, I mean, the music is so loud in those things-”

“-Can’t even talk if you wanted to,” he finishes for you, sympathetic as he sits down on one side of his couch, motioning for you to sit.

He’s shocked when you sit directly beside him, leaning into his side.

“You feeling alright, butterscotch?” A nickname he’d settled on based purely on your yellow uniform.

“I’m just… this is so annoying.”

“Yeah, most boring dates are. You can probably just let him know it's not a good match.”

“Oh, I think he knows.” You sound miffed, and he looks down at you.

“What do you mean?”

“I told him I was leaving because I was fucking bored.” He’s stunned by this revelation, giving you a doubtful look.

“No you didn’t.”

“Oh yes, I did.”

He stares at you for another few minutes, shaking his head. “Why would you say that?”

“Because it was true.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No.” You roll your eyes.

“You know he’s gonna tell people you said that.”

“Yup.”

“Word travels fast, small ship.”

“I know.”

“Your dating chances, totally squandered.”

“Or maybe I’ll get more interesting dates.”

“I could plan a more interesting date.”

There’s an odd stillness in the air as you turn to look up at him. “You could, could you?”

“Yeah. I’d at least dance with you. That gives me points over Nozawa already.”

“That’s the bare minimum.”

“I’d use saved up holodeck time and do something like a beach date. Get some ice cream, walk the shore… maybe push you in.”

You snort, shaking your head at him. “Pushing me in isn’t a good first date.”

“But you’d laugh.” He reaches to tuck some of your hair back. “I like your laugh. You’d laugh harder if I fell in with you.”

You lean towards his hand, and his eyes flick down towards your mouth. You pull up to kiss him, and he wraps an arm around your shoulders to hold you close, despite the briefness of the kiss.

“Take me on one then.”

“Huh?”

“A date. Take me on one.” You give him a shove, and he laughs.

“Okay. Easy. How about tomorrow?”

“I thought you’d need some holodeck time saved up?”

“I’ve been saving up holodeck time to ask you on a date. Just say yes.”

Your face softens, and he can’t help grinning wider.

“Yes, idiot.”

You pulled him in for another kiss, and he could almost hear something sort of click together in his head.

Maybe… maybe he could believe in soulmates. If it was you.

[pocketramblr]

5 headcanons for a krakenverse AU where Tamaki's mother married First instead of All for One. (Playing it safe with the weaker but less evil brother.) Tamaki is their son.

Ehehehe

1- Amaji has an interesting definition of playing it safe, because AfO killed his brother's lover Second (and possibly his next and last lover Third idk but either way 100% murdered lover rate) but when she manages to catch First alone to explain it, he agrees- it'd be political, but it would hopefully offer protection to Ozoko and freedom to First, as long as he spent some time both in the city and back with his brother.

2- AfO protests, naturally, even citing that he should be married before his little brother, but First points out he had centuries to do that before he was even born and didn't, so he lost his chance.(Shame about Sorahiko, I suppose) Knowing his brother will try to kill Amaji anyway, he also tells him that they plan to magically seal their lives together- if Amaji dies, so does he, and vice versa. The catch here tho, is to do this, they'd need someone somehow related to both of them by blood. (This is related to the spell and method in krakenverse canon that keeps AfO from even lifting a hand to his relatives, but less powerful) As they do not share any relatives, Amaji and First would need to make one... Fortunately for Amaji (on a time crunch because AfO would kill her long before nine months were up) and First (gay), witchcraft exists!

3- which, I guess, makes their marriage technically also a shotgun wedding? Ok sure why not. AfO grits his teeth and says they must really love each other to do that, but he can't not attend the wedding, and when he sees the little tiny Tamaki he decides he really needs to find a way to brainwash Amaji so he can have his brother back... And his little nephew, who's adorable (his hair is lighter here, closer to Nejire's shade) and a potential heir to the throne of Ozoko. Which means he has to play nice, to ensure they are within his home and not the city as much as possible

4- he also just... Acts like Tamaki is named after him. He tries to get his pods to treat him special so he prefers it to the city aquatics, but Tamaki is as shy about the obvious and forced coddling as he is getting sideways looks, so he hates both and he especially hates how his uncle keeps forgetting his name, even if he's the only one who is honest about considering Tamaki weak and ill suited for the city. Instead of drawing this towards the Kraken like AfO hopes, it draws him further into his own room in Ozoko, reluctant to ever leave and worrying First, who can't imagine trapping yourself with so much potential freedom right there.

5- AfO, frustrated that what he considers "playing nice" isn't working, wonders if getting married himself would solve the problem, get First to visit more, perhaps a child would draw Tamaki out. He thinks about suitable options, but there's not really anyone. Inko was pretty, but she got married to someone on land, poor tastes just like her mother. The rest of the pod isn't really attractive either, and if he picks one of his more violent and loyal followers, his brother will never want to visit.

As he muses on the issue, Amaji and First lead their son up to the surface to meet Queen Inko and her boys, slightly desperate to get the kid some positive socialization since neither the Kraken's territory nor the city seem viable options.

[entriprises]

random miscellaneous facts about my muses, based on daily muse questions on the dash over the last week (& more) :

-- what's one quirk/habit/trait that someone else could notice about your muse without it being mentioned? by @lvebug

bradley doesn’t close cabinets all the way sometimes. they’ll be left ajar. he also picks at his face and neck sometimes when he’s uncomfortable

tadashi chews on things constantly -- gum, nuts, straws, pens, toothpicks, lollipop sticks

-- does your muse have their ringer on on their phone? do they use custom ringtones? do they use do not disturb?

cathy and bobby have one of the ringtones offered in phones but not the default one and they never actually have their ringers off

mark once put his phone in do not disturb and forgot to turn it off and was confused why he wasn’t getting notifications for a week

bradley doesn’t have his ringer on because he just doesn’t ever want it to go off during something (it did once and he got chewed out)

buttercup barely knows where her phone is, but it usually is on do not disturb with the only exceptions are family contacts

-- do they have a best friend? tell me about who your muse would consider their best friend !!! by @lvebug

bradley considers nat to be his best friend

for buttercup it’s her sisters

mark’s is rick martinez from his mission

bob’s is his twin herschel and a friend who he met at an event for his mom during his high school years but she doesn’t have a name at the moment

baymax considers everyone his best friend

-- everyone should tell me  if their muse has any chronic pain by @strangewonderful

bradley tries very hard to pretend he doesn’t have any neck and upper back pain but it’s right between his shoulder blades some days

romeo will tell you that it’s in his biceps and shoulders from playing too hard some days

-- does your muse workout? stretch? yoga? runs? do they enjoy working out? and also do they prefer to work out alone or with others?

romeo doesn't work out unless someone drags him to it. when andie started to work out more that's when he got into it too. that being said he has a long history of hauling heavy equipment so he gets in a workout from that stuff naturally. he hates running, and he hates working out alone

-- how long does your muse spend in bed before they get up for the day? what gets them out of bed?

emmett usually spends about twenty minutes in bed. he does a lot of phone scrolling, mostly looking at his own schedule, trying to find music to put on, and slowly waking up. what gets him out of bed is that his bed is in the living room so when liam's up, he's up

-- does your muse keep a calendar? what do they write on it, how detailed is it, is it digital or on paper?

jen keeps a calendar in her phone. she has waaaay too much paperwork to want to keep a paper calendar and more likely than not it'll get los in the mix of everything. she does have a couple paper ones hanging anyways in the office just cause

-- tell me about your muse's favorite holiday! how do they celebrate? do they decorate their living space? do they celebrate with family or friends or in private?

christmas is a big one for cathy, and also thanksgiving. they're family heavy holidays and though it's always been just her and kate there's something sweet to the formalness and decor that comes with both holidays. she absolutely does her best to decorate for christmas, and never inappropriately early. she has it right on time with the end of november (sometimes thanksgiving is spent decorating). they've got enough christmas lights to wrap around the rockefeller tree probably twice. also tree decorating is a must

cathy also honors her wedding anniversary and the date when she and ellis met by doing something that was special to them both whether it's eating out at a restaurant or organizing something

-- tell me what your muse’s dream job was when they were little! what is their job now?

buck has had a million and one jobs and that's not something that was different when he little either. as a kid he wanted to be it all (not unlike a barbie). the list included athlete, lifeguard, crossing guard, spy, cowboy, and dexter of dexter's lab

-- tell me about your muse’s music listening habits! what volume do they listen at? headphones or speaker? is it mostly while they work or are on their way somewhere? do they listen to music at all? do they listen to playlists or one song on repeat?

bobby doesn't ever really use headphones... he doesn't own them. he is almost always listening to whatever a space is playing. music at the firehouse? okay cool, that's his music of the day! speaker is the way to go, car radio for sure. he does love listening to music, and he has like six playlists all some variation of "for car" or "recommended"

-- where is your muse most productive and when? morning or night, home or the office? etc etc

neal is productive all hours of the day, and he could work anywhere. he's truly the most adaptive of the muses and it comes from the demands of the conman life. that being said, he hates people staring at him while he works and does prefer privacy and space

-- tell me about what your muse likes the least about their job. what can’t they stand? what do they frequently complain about?

holly doesn't have a full time job unless you count her unofficial investigations. if you do, she hates how young she is. it's her biggest roadblock because people don't take her seriously. it also does have its perks though and she can get away with a lot of stuff

-- tell me about your muses socks. who wears fun socks? who wears mismatched socks? do they wear socks? low cut? ankle?

the most fun socks belong to holly and buttercup. they both have very stylish ones with frills, patterns, and more! they both prefer the ankle or mid calf socks (depending on the outfit of course)

IF YOU'RE READING THIS HI!!! ILY!! MWAH!!

[ducknotinarow]

Blitz - Have you ever ... regretted falling in love with Stolas

| send my muse ‘have you evers’ and they have to answer truthfully!

This was the first time they had any sort of free time between jobs so, being the great boss that he is he told them all to take it off and blow off some stream. Loona seemed okay with it since she could hang out at some hell hound party.

Blitz was not joining this time.

Of course the insufferable couple were excited for a date night. Mox seemed pretty insistence to make sure Blitz knew absolutely no details about it. Fuck him he had better things todo than to follow them around anyway. Which was actually true but even if it wasn't true didn't mean shit and Moxxie should get over themself. He wasn't the only imp in a relationship after all.

Moxxie was just the only one who wasn't shit at them. Blitz still hadn't quit got his head around it, Stolas actually loving him. An imp like him. Not that Stolas hadn't shown him that wasn't true. The riding outfit for the hell horse lessons, the dang horse he kept in his living room now. Stolas need to prove it wasn't about the sex anymore. Blitz still had the letter Stolas sent him what felt like years ago now. Stashed away, where like he knew? The exact pile of clothes he shoved it in to the pile closest to his TV just under the edge of the window. Tail whipping back and forth as he was currently digging through one pile to find what to wear for tonight.

He knew for sure Stolas was going to look amazing, and make him look shabby in comparison. So Blitz just needed his best. Not really Stolas wouldn't care, Blitz might make a comment on Stolas outfit not quite the one he meant sure he wished he had said something other then it being a bit much but well Stolas would have got the wrong idea. But, Blitz didn't have to do that now right? The imp sighs and falls back to rest on his hunches as he runs a hand over his forehead. Blitz wasn't sure which was harder to wrap his mind around. That Stolas was able to be in love with him? Or that Blitz was in love with Stolas?

He wasn't some teen edge lord, he loved before Fizz was very much his first love. Did he love Vero? There was some love but keeping things away from that was more what he wanted and clearly that should be fine with a succubus till she said those dreaded words.

Stolas though? Yeah Blitz had to admit the deal wasn't the best but he befitted in some ways. Hated he grew attached after a quick time, part of him wonders if their past connection was why. A stupid delusion. Even with the annoying mentioning of him being a little imp and such. Not like Blitz didn't throw Stolas being royal back at times. But thing is? Stolas despite it all was perfect for Blitz.

All Blitz knew is? Stolas has been the best thing ever to happen to him. For someone he just wanted to use? And rather see he was being used by. But now? It was more that Stolas seemed to have a limitless supply of love to offer to the imp. Likes spending time with him even hell Stolas wants a relationship with Blitz. Blitz just didn't feel he was worth that all. Sometimes he wished they could go back to before. But he also never wants to not have what they do now. But, it was easier he could keep distance. He couldn't really lose Stolas because Stolas wasn't his.

Stolas makes Blitz want to always stay, even when he feels he don't deserved to. A heavy sigh as he looked back to his clothes he just grabbed for the first leather jacket he could and stood up. Smoothing it out as he checked the time. "Fuck im gonna late."